The Coming Storm
by riversidewren
Summary: Sequel to Silent Night. Athos stared at Treville, his blue eyes tinged with anguish. "Captain, have you ever made a vow that you were absolutely certain was the right thing to do, even though you suffered for it?" A strongbox in the armory at la Fère may provide answers to Athos' past-but it also reveals the existence of a vigilante group with a disturbing idea of justice.
1. Chapter 1

_ "__Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes."_

Alexandre Dumas_, The Count of Monte Cristo_

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CHAPTER I

Life at the garrison had finally started to return to its regular rhythms, thought Aramis. The only difficulty was that while on the surface everything seemed the same, life for himself, as well as for Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan, had undeniably changed. Ever since Christmas Eve, a series of events had been set in motion that had altered their lives in ways they could never have imagined.

In the past month, Aramis had been able to spend two secret, blissful nights with Anne at the palace. By serving as a mentor to one of the Dauphin's pages, he now had ready access to his son. Porthos had a pretty widowed seamstress as a new love interest. D'Artagnan had hope for the future, as Constance's husband was dead, and the lad was now free to marry his love. But most startling of all had been the transformation of Athos—and it had all begun with his wish to give a despondent Aramis the chance to see his newborn son.

The new father could not possibly have anticipated that the plan would end up with his friend being seriously wounded during a gunfight. Nor could he have guessed that when Captain Treville sought help from an apothecary near the garrison, he would be forced to return instead with the man's daughter, a young woman named Charlotte Gaillard. Her kind, competent manner had soothed a delirious Athos as she had worked tirelessly to save his life. In the course of his recovery, a teasing flirtation had blossomed into romance.

Even now, Aramis found the speed of Athos' courtship of Charlotte mind-boggling. After all, his friend had been skittish around women ever since his ex-wife, Milady de Winter, had destroyed him by murdering his brother. A brief interest in the Comtesse Ninon de Larroque a year ago had been the only indication that Athos might someday actually consider entrusting his heart to a woman again. However, at the time, he had declared he no longer believed in marriage, and his friends had taken him at his word.

Charlotte, however, was an altogether different kind of woman from Milady and Ninon. She had been raised by her widowed father, and had helped him run his apothecary from an early age. Her gentleness had been a balm to Athos' soul during his suffering from his gunshot wound. However, it was her keen wit and intelligence that had attracted his attention when he had healed. She was a pretty woman, but certainly not the most beautiful in Paris. What made Charlotte unique was her poise and quiet confidence. These traits, combined with her auburn hair and lithe body, had bewitched Athos from the first day he had been conscious enough to actually notice her.

Perhaps most important, though, was that she had the uncanny ability to make Athos laugh. Watching his friend fall in love had been a joy for Aramis. He had long hoped that Athos would one day be able to open his heart to a deserving woman, and there was no question that Charlotte was the perfect complement to the natural moodiness of the Comte de la Fère. She knew just how to handle him when he became difficult, and could deftly turn him from angst to calm with any one of various methods in her repertoire.

They had married less than three weeks after they met, the ceremony hasty by necessity. At the time, both Athos and Charlotte had been accused of crimes that merited a trial by the King, with execution the possible result. Luckily, they had both been found innocent by the Queen, who had presided over the trial in the King's absence. The newlyweds had then narrowly escaped death in a fire at the apothecary, with Porthos and Aramis arriving just in time to save them.

The next morning, though, something had gone very wrong. There had apparently been a serious quarrel between Athos and his wife, and she had left Paris with her visiting cousin, giving no date for her return. Athos, who had still been recovering from the torture he had been subjected to while in custody in the palace dungeon, had sunk into a depression that was punctuated only by bouts of anger directed at his friends.

When d'Artagnan had finally persuaded him to join them for a night at the Wren, Porthos and Aramis had quickly realized that the invitation had been a mistake. Five minutes into the evening, Athos had instinctively returned to his old habit of sitting alone and drinking heavily. The scowl on his face had only darkened further when he had glanced across the taproom to see Milady de Winter enter the tavern.

"You won't believe who just sauntered through the door," muttered Porthos, his tone disbelieving. Aramis and d'Artagnan discreetly followed his gaze, both wincing when they caught sight of the petite brunette. "She's got some nerve, after tryin' to kill both Athos and Charlotte!"

"I'll take care of her," murmured d'Artagnan, shrugging on his doublet and blocking Milady's way when she attempted to breeze by their table.

"He's not in the mood," he said evenly. "Leave him be."

"You don't know Athos the way I do, d'Artagnan," she replied, her eyes sharpening at the challenge. "He will **certainly** want to hear what I have to say."

"Haven't you caused enough problems already?" he snapped, frosty sarcasm lacing his words. "I suggest you turn around and go right back to whatever hole in the wall you are currently calling home."

"That would be the Louvre." Her smile of triumph was dazzling. As d'Artagnan's mouth hung open in surprise, she pushed past him and approached Athos' table, sliding with grace into the chair opposite him. Deftly lifting a clean goblet off the tray of a passing waiter, she poured herself some wine from the bottle on the table, then tilted her head back, looking appraisingly at her ex-husband. He stared back at her, his gaze stony.

"Trouble in paradise?" she inquired, her expression solicitous. "I hear your wife has been gone some three weeks now. How does it feel to have an empty bed again?"

A hand shot out and trapped her wrist in a vise-like grip. "I feel I have made my feelings about **you** abundantly clear, but in case you have misconstrued my words, I will make it plain once more-we are done. I have no desire to ever see you again, let alone speak to you. I would highly suggest that you leave me in peace, before I am tempted to carry through with the vow I made when you left Paris the first time."

"Even if you wanted to, which I doubt you do by the desire I sense in those deep blue eyes, you are now powerless to lift a finger against me."

"Any desire you sense is purely your overactive imagination. At this point, I would rather make love to a scorpion. So pray tell me why you think I could not kill you in a second should I so desire."

Milady raised her goblet to her lips and drank deeply, then ran her tongue over her upper lip, feeling a thrill of satisfaction when Athos looked away, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. _He still wants me—he just can't admit it. Five minutes alone in a room with him, and he would forget he ever married that common girl._

"I have a new position, and I wanted you to be the first to know-just in case you need to find me."

"I could care less what you do. It is not necessary for you to keep me apprised of your activities at all times."

Milady leaned over, and cupped his chin delicately in her hand, forcing his lifeless blue eyes to meet hers. "Oh, you **will** care when you hear this, my husband. I am now the mistress of the King of France, and as such, am untouchable—at least in all the ways that concern you."

She laughed, her eyes sparkling as she waited for his reaction.

"Congratulations," came the cold response. "Leave it to you to reach the heights of success-as a whore."

"And leave it to **you** to once again spectacularly fail at keeping a woman happy-and to resort to keeping company with the only real friend you have—a bottle of alcohol." She stood up and smoothed her skirt, her composure having returned. "I must get back to the palace…the King has need of me, you know." She dimpled a smile at him. "I would wish you luck at repairing your rift with your bride, but that wouldn't really be sincere, would it?" Turning her back on him, she made her way out of the tavern, her scornful laughter floating in her wake.

As she emerged into the cool evening air, a hand seized her arm. "Was that **really** necessary?"

"Aramis, you are definitely losing your touch." Turning, she slanted her eyes at him in a manner that could best be described as provocative. "Is that any way to greet a lady?"

"Not quite, but we both know I am not looking at a lady, am I?" he replied, his manner deceptively nonchalant. "I am warning you- stay away from Athos. The last thing he needs right now is for you to be harassing him."

"Harassing him?" She arched an elegant eyebrow at Aramis, then lifted her lips to his ear. "You misunderstand my intentions," she breathed. "I was merely informing him of my new position. It would be **quite** awkward if he found out I was the King's new mistress by being asked to escort me to the His Majesty's bedroom for a tryst." Drawing back, she smirked at the expression on his face.

"You are unbelievable," observed Aramis, shaking his head in disbelief. "Just when I thought you couldn't do anything more despicable, you worm your way into the bedroom of the most important man in the land, then flaunt it in Athos' face. I suppose Richelieu was just a warmup for you?"

"Richelieu, like Michel the apprentice, had outlived his usefulness. You can rest assured that I did not spend time mourning his untimely passing."

"I can see that," retorted Aramis. "After all, the Cardinal has been in the grave less than forty-eight hours, and you are already serving as the monarch's new plaything."

"Plaything?" she clucked her tongue in mock disapproval. "I prefer to think of myself as providing him solace—of being a refuge for the poor man. After all, the Queen has disappointed him in almost every possible way. Other than finally producing a son, that is. But the delivery of an heir **does** make one wonder. After all those years of barrenness, the child seems a manifestation of a miracle—or perhaps of adultery."

Aramis' eyes blazed in response. "Mind your tongue when you speak of the Queen! You are not fit to breathe the same air she does!"

"Such fire, Aramis!" Her body seemed to coil itself in readiness, as a snake does before striking at its unsuspecting prey. "One rarely sees such a level of devotion in an ordinary soldier. But perhaps you are anything but ordinary in the eyes of the Queen."

He fell silent for a moment, his face becoming impassive. "All musketeers are expected to have unquestioning allegiance to the Crown. Such loyalty is obviously a concept you find difficult to grasp, having served no one but yourself throughout your entire life."

As he left to return to the warmth of the tavern, she called out after him, "Don't be a stranger! Stop by and say hello when you are next in the palace."

Ignoring her, Aramis pushed his way through the increasingly convivial crowd, finally sitting back down next to Porthos. "Where's d'Artagnan?" he growled, finishing his goblet in one swallow. "I thought that the plan was for him to escort Athos home. After all, taking Athos out to cheer him up was the lad's bright idea…which now appears to have failed rather miserably."

"I told 'im to leave," Porthos muttered. "He was getting' antsy lookin' at the clock, and it's not even eleven. Constance seems to have dramatically altered his habits."

"As did Charlotte for Athos," sighed Aramis, filling his goblet with the last of the wine. "I know I've asked you this before, but you are quite sure you have no idea what their quarrel was about?"

Porthos shook his head. "When I escorted her to Denise and Madeleine's village, she wasn't exactly in a chatty mood."

His friend's dark eyes flashed in frustration. "I just **cannot i**magine what would have made Charlotte upset enough to actually leave Athos—for any period of time, let alone three weeks. After all, he already knew about Milady—that story had been told before they even married. And why didn't he try to stop her? They were deliriously happy. It makes absolutely no sense."

Aramis eyed Athos, who was hunched over his goblet, his gaze focused on his wine. "And Denise was able to shed no light on the matter?" Porthos grunted noncommittally.

"Am I to interpret that as meaning that you and the lovely widow found other things to discuss?"

"You can interpret it to mean whatever you like," replied Porthos with a serene smile. "The bottom line is that my personal life is just that—personal."

"**Why** is everyone insisting on pairing off?" groaned Aramis. "Am I to have no one to keep me company at Madame Angel's in the future?"

The big man rolled his eyes. "As if you go to Madame Angel's to spend time with me. How stupid do I look, Aramis?"

Sitting at his small table, hat pulled low over his eyes, Athos turned away from the sight of Aramis and Porthos engaging in lighthearted banter. It was getting more and more difficult to be around his friends in anything other than a strictly professional situation. At first, it had bothered him, but now, he had gotten to the point where he just didn't care. His mind increasingly wandered during briefings, and he had caught Captain Treville regarding him with a troubled expression more than once.

_All I want is for this nightmare to just go away. I want Charlotte back in my life, and I want her to look at me with the trust and love she used to-not with the disappointment and hurt that was written all over her face the morning she left. The fact is that there is nothing I can do to change the past. Annette was my first love, and our daughter is a lasting legacy of our time together. Charlotte wants and deserves an explanation, and after seven years, I long for one as well. The problem is that any inquiries I make run the risk, no matter how small, of impacting innocent lives…lives that I vowed to protect by my silence. What on earth am I going to do?_

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**I couldn't stay away long...the plot bunnies were keeping me awake at night. Let me know what you think...**


	2. Chapter 2

_"Sometimes, only one person is missing, and the whole world seems depopulated."_

Alphonse de Lamartine

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**CHAPTER II**

Dawn was not far away, but darkness still shrouded the peacefully sleeping village of Moret-sur-Loing. Charlotte had finally fallen asleep after hours of tossing and turning. Unfortunately, very night since she had left Paris had followed much the same routine. When she became so exhausted that her body succumbed to sleep, her dreams were often just as restless and troubled as the hours preceding them.

Tonight, however, had been one of the lucky nights. Instead of revisiting the dark paths of pain and regret, her mind had chosen to take her to a very pleasant memory—the night of the New Year's Eve ball at the palace.

_His hand on the small of her back, Athos guided her into the gallery where they had practiced the waltz earlier. Clad in his dark blue dress uniform cloak and black leather, he had never looked more ruggedly handsome. She suddenly become aware that she was staring at him, and blushed deeply. He reached for her hands and began to speak, his mesmerizing voice sending a chill down her spine. __As she listened to his words, she felt confused, for it was then that her dream began to diverge rather significantly from the events of that night_.

_"I must make a confession…I have wanted you since the day we met. I thought I was in love before—with Annette, then Milady-but Charlotte, I have __**never **__felt like this. You are a brilliant, captivating, sensual woman…and I am determined to make you my own."_

_Gathering her into his arms, he bent to place his mouth on hers. After the briefest contact, she surrendered to him and parted her lips slightly, prompting him to instantly deepen the kiss, exploring her mouth gently, but thoroughly._

_Her response instinctively began to match his, stoking his desire until she found herself pressed against the wall, her hands winding through his hair. A soft moan of pleasure involuntarily escaped from her lips, and he stopped, his breathing quickening. Without a word, he deftly spun her around and began nuzzling her neck, his lips tracing a path from her hair to the nape of her neck. At the same time, his hands began to slowly unlace her dress. _

_"__Athos!" she gasped. "Not here…"_

_"__We are perfectly safe. I have taken the liberty of securing the door," he murmured, his breath warm on her skin. "If you are agreeable, perhaps you might indulge me in the fantasy I have had for the past few hours of us-enjoying each other for a bit here in the gallery."_

_"__But...the King…the Captain…"_

_"__They can wait," he said huskily as her dress slid to the floor. "I cannot."_

The shrill cry of a rooster jolted Charlotte awake. Her nightdress was damp with sweat, and she was gasping for air. Without thinking, she instinctively shifted her body, seeking the warmth of a familiar lean, masculine frame. Only when she hit the cold stone of the wall did she suck in her breath, realizing that she was alone.

_Athos is miles away, in Paris. _ The ache in her heart seemed to be grow bigger by the day, but her anger and disappointment seemed determined to keep pace with it. She had tried to distract herself by taking on a large part of the responsibility of running her cousin's household. Cooking, cleaning, and keeping little Madeleine amused made short work of the daytime hours. The nights, however, seemed interminable when contrasted with those she had spent curled up against the body of her husband.

Denise was spending long hours catching up on her seamstress business, for a steady stream of faithful customers had begun knocking on the door within hours of her return. Her mother, a formidable woman named Etiennette, had been unable to keep pace with the orders during her daughter's absence, despite working late into the night. Although she had been loath to admit it, the elderly woman had clearly been exhausted by trying to maintain the sewing business while caring for the property and the livestock. Denise had taken one look at her mother's thin frame and had promptly sent her away for two weeks to visit her sister-in-law.

Upon her return, Etiennette had raised her eyebrows to see Charlotte still present. When they sat down to dinner that night, she had finally been unable to hold her tongue. "Apparently young people today have a different concept of newlywed bliss that they did in my day," she observed tartly, her sharp blue eyes trained on her niece. "Why are you not home with your husband, Charlotte? A month into **my** marriage, I was already pregnant."

As Charlotte shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her aunt pressed forward, probing for an answer to a situation that she found most perplexing. "Children don't just appear out of thin air, you know," she added, her voice acerbic. "You two **did** consummate the marriage, didn't you?" Her niece coughed, her face turning pink. Interpreting this cough as embarrassed affirmation, the old woman pounced.

"If Athos is holding out on you, my dear, or is-unable to perform, shall we say?-my cousin is a bishop, and he can get that marriage annulled quicker than you can say _I do_. Which is it? If it is merely nerves, it's a bit of an extreme case, especially with your figure…but it **can** be dealt with if a sensitive ear is available to talk him through his fears. I would be happy to intervene on your behalf should it be required."

As the awkward silence continued, a thought suddenly struck the elderly woman, and she cleared her throat, leaning forward to speak in a loud whisper. "Denise says he is **very **close to three men in his regiment. This may be difficult to think about, my dear, but—are you quite sure he fancies women? After all, there **are** some men that do not."

Charlotte's coughing worsened, and she shot her cousin an imploring look. "Mama, this is quite a personal conversation to be having over the dinner table," Denise said carefully, her eyes darting to Madeleine, who was following the thread of the exchange with interest.

"But I like hearing about Athos. He's nice!" protested Madeleine. "Grand-mère, what do you mean about him not being able to perform? He is not a juggler, or a musician, is he?" She looked at Charlotte, her large blue eyes enormous with curiosity.

"Athos is a man of many talents, darling," replied Denise calmly, struggling to hold back the hysterical laughter that would have been entirely inappropriate. "Perhaps when Charlotte is not so tired, she can tell us more. Right now, I think **you** are ready for dessert. Did you see what I had prepared in the kitchen?"

"Custard!" squealed her daughter, jumping up and running to her mother. "Please, Mama, may I go get it?"

Denise gave her an affectionate hug. "Of course. But be careful—the bowl is heavy!"

Once they had finished dessert and the table had been cleared, Etiennette took Madeleine up to bed, then retired herself. Denise and Charlotte sat by the fire, sewing companionably. Charlotte had nowhere near the talent with a needle that her cousin did, but she had been hard at work on a shirt for nearly three weeks now, and was nearly finished.

Denise glanced up, watching the concentration on Charlotte's face as she worked on the hem of the snowy white linen. "You're almost done," she said, smiling approvingly. "I think Athos will be quite happy with the finished result."

"What makes you think it is for him?" asked Charlotte, her voice neutral.

"Charlotte, look at me." As she brought her eyes to those of her cousin, Charlotte could feel tears stinging her eyes. "How much longer are you going to let this go on? I cannot imagine what would cause you to run the risk of causing irretrievable damage to your marriage."

"Perhaps **he** is the one who is assuming the risk," muttered Charlotte, her face a mask of misery.

"I have no doubt he is suffering as much as you are, and this needs to stop. Take it from a young widow—" Denise's grey eyes darkened with sadness. "There are many, many days when I wish I could have Alain beside me again, just for a few hours. None of us know how long we have on earth, especially men like Athos who put their lives on the line every day for King and country. If he were to die tomorrow, how would you feel?"

"As if my life was over," replied Charlotte softly. "But the fact of the matter is that I already feel like that to some degree**. ****Without going into detail, so**mething important about his past was disclosed to me—something I would consider **vital**—and I knew nothing about it. When I confronted him, he admitted it was true, but refused to explain. All he would say was that he made a vow to keep a secret many years ago, and he intended to honour that oath. How would you have felt if Alain had done something similar?"

Denise reached for her cousin's hand. "Without knowing the particulars, it is difficult for me to say—but is it not entirely possible that there is a very good reason he cannot disclose what has been kept a secret for this long? Athos is a good man, Charlotte. Surely you must know that he would **never** keep secrets from you if at all possible." When Charlotte remained silent, Denise pressed on. "When we love someone, sometimes we just have to take a leap of faith, even when it makes us uneasy. Perhaps you should just let the past be the past. If you cannot, you may risk losing him forever—so you must ask yourself if this matter is worth taking that risk."

Tears fell from Charlotte's eyes, and she shook her head slowly. "I want to say yes, Denise, because he became defensive when I questioned him, and practically snapped at me. . But in my heart, I know that the answer is no. Every day I spend away from him is just pure torture."

"Then I think that you have made up your mind," observed Denise softly.

"But perhaps if I wait a bit longer, he will realize he has behaved badly, and will come to me and ask my pardon. It is only right that he apologize."

"You are probably right—but is it more important that you two work this out, or that you wait for him to make the first move?"

Charlotte twisted the linen in her hands. "**Why **is this happening, Denise? I thought that once the trial was over, we would begin a quiet, happy life together. But now…that idea seems so quaint…and so naïve."

"Why did the love of my life die after less than five years of marriage?" asked Denise with a rueful smile. "I am afraid I have no answer for you, darling, except that happiness in life does not usually just come and find us-we must fight for it."

Later that night, Charlotte sat by the window of her small room, hugging her knees to her chest. Outside the glass, the Loing River glided past the house, its slow waters heading towards Paris. _If only I were in Paris right now. _

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The next morning, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis stood in Captain Treville's office, waiting for d'Artagnan to arrive so they could receive their orders. The usually unflappable Athos shifted restlessly, annoyed at the tardiness of their youngest. When a breathless d'Artagnan finally burst in through the door, he flinched as he saw his mentor's icy gaze. "Apologies," he mumbled. "I have grown used to Constance waking me up for her pain medication, but last night was the first night she slept peacefully. I must have overslept."

Treville waved his hand dismissively. "Understandable. You have been under a great deal of strain the past few weeks, d'Artagnan. We are all glad that Constance is healing. I expect she will soon be ready to walk down the aisle?" He suppressed a smile as he saw the young man light up.

"I'm hopeful, sir," said d'Artagnan, a grin spreading across her face. "But she is not quite there yet. Perhaps I might ask about reserving the chapel when we get back from this mission?"

"Perhaps," replied Treville absently, his eyes focused on Athos. His lieutenant stood straight backed and seemingly at attention, but the Captain could tell that his mind was elsewhere. "What do you think, Athos?"

"Sir?" Athos' voice was quiet, and he looked at Treville expectantly.

"I asked you what you thought."

"About…?"

Leaning back in his chair, the older man steepled his fingers and remained silent for a moment. Seeming to come to a decision, he locked eyes with Athos. "I believe that Athos and I require a short conference to go over the details of the mission. Could the three of you give us a moment?"

Aramis glanced at Porthos, raising an eyebrow. The big man shook his head slightly, and they turned to leave. D'Artagnan appeared baffled, and had not yet moved. Suddenly, Athos' voice rang out, full of anger and bitterness.

"I know **exactly** what you are thinking, Captain—and feel free to say it in front of everyone, for I believe other minds are working along the same lines. Why is it that everyone seems to think that I **cannot function** without Charlotte by my side? I merely lost my train of thought for an instant. It happens to all of us-**yes, even you, Aramis**." His eyes swiveled to Aramis, who had rolled his eyes at his friend's words.

"There is actually a more appropriate question that is begging to be asked. Why do **you** seem to feel that you must put of a façade of indifference? It is obvious you are miserable!" responded Aramis, running a hand distractedly through his hair.

"Since when have you been an expert on my emotional state?" Athos had assumed his most formidable, comte-like pose.

"Since I saw you lose your heart to the lovely Charlotte," answered Aramis, his eyes softening. "Athos, it is **not** weakness to admit that you miss her. Although you will probably refuse to acknowledge it, all of us have been more than aware that your work is suffering and that your moodiness has been—shall we say, less than endearing?"

In a blink of an eye, Athos had shoved Aramis against the wall, his hands wrapping around his friend's throat. His voice hoarse with emotion, he growled, "Damn you, Aramis! You think everything in life is a joke. Well, I have news for you—it is not!"

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**Many thanks for all the reviews and favorites! I love hearing what you have to say, and your support is very much appreciated!**


	3. Chapter 3

_ "The happiness of a man in this life does not consist in the absence but in the mastery of his passions."_

_Alfred, Lord Tennyson_

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**CHAPTER III**

Athos had barely completed his last sentence when Porthos threw his arms around him in a bear hug, his muscles straining as he fought against the almost superhuman strength of his agitated comrade. "Enough!" he snapped. "Let him go, Athos! Don't make me hurt you!"

At his words, Athos ceased struggling, and sullenly released Aramis.

"Porthos." Treville, his voice commanding, nodded for the big man to step away from Athos. "Aramis, d'Artagnan. Please leave us for a few moments." The three men filed out of the office silently, d'Artagnan closing the door behind them. Athos stood once more in front of his commander, his manner stiff and formal.

"I offer a sincere apology for my behaviour, Captain. I let my emotions get the best of me. It will not happen again."

Treville leaned back in his chair, his manner circumspect. "The assignment I am about to hand the four of you is an important one, and I need you to assure me that you **will** be able to give it your complete attention. If not, I will not hesitate to put you on desk duty."

"You have my word, sir," said Athos, his composure slipping a bit as his impatience showed. "May I go summon the others now?"

"No, you may **not." **Treville glared at his lieutenant**.** "I am not quite done yet. Athos, I know that I am not your father, but I think of you as if you were my own son. Anyone can see that you desperately miss Charlotte—" he held up his hand as Athos moved to protest. "Please-do **not** insult my intelligence by trying to tell me otherwise. A word of advice—life is short, and women like your wife are few and far between. Promise me that you will not sabotage the first real chance at happiness that you have had in some time."

Athos stared at him, his blue eyes tinged with an anguish that Treville found unsettling. "Captain, have you ever made a vow that you were absolutely certain was the right thing to do, even though you suffered for it? I did that once, many years ago. At the time, my heart was comforted by the fact that I had ensured the safety of someone I loved, albeit at great personal cost to myself. That decision has now come back to haunt me, and is having consequences that I could not possibly have foreseen- including straining the relationship between Charlotte and myself."

He stopped for a moment, his throat constricting painfully. When he continued, his voice was hoarse with emotion. "We do agree on one thing though… I can ill afford to lose her, Captain. When I am ready, I may need a day or two to visit her—when you see fit, of course, to grant me the leave."

Treville gave him a measured look. "Perhaps after this mission is complete, as you will be in the same general area as Denise's village. The task I have in mind for the four of you revolves around a trip to Fontainebleau."

Athos raised an eyebrow. "Fontainebleau? This time of year? The King usually only visits his hunting lodge in the summer or autumn."

"That **has** been his custom," agreed Treville. "However, His Majesty wishes to hold a special hunt featuring the four candidates for the position of Grand Falconer. Each man will have the chance to display his skills with one of his prize birds of prey. Where better to hold the auditions then on His Majesty's favourite hunting grounds? You **are **aware that the position of the King's Falconer is open?"

His lieutenant inclined his head. "I had heard of the unfortunate death of the Duc de Chevreuse. I believe the poor man died of a fever?

"Just two days before Richelieu." Treville was thoughtful. "The last Grand Falconer was quite influential-some would say **too** influential. The King, as we all well know, is obsessed with falconry, and spends a significant amount of time with the man who trains his birds. With the First Minister also recently deceased, the selection of Grand Falconer is more important than ever. It seems absurd that a man who trains birds of prey has the potential to manipulate matters of state, but there is no doubt that the Duc de Chevreuse was instrumental in persuading the King to adopt certain policies that have been, shall we say, controversial?"

"And I assume that you would prefer to have a nonpartisan man in the post?"

"A clever deduction. There may be hope for you yet, Athos," observed Treville, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile. "It **would** effectively neutralize the political significance of the position to have an outsider—perhaps even a foreigner—appointed. To that end, I have encouraged the King to choose the finalists based on their falconry skills, not their politics. It **does** help that he received a pair of gyrfalcons at Christmas from the King of Norway. None of the French applicants have any real experience with them, and His Majesty is quite anxious to master the use of them in hunting."

"Gyrfalcons," mused Athos. "One of the most highly sought after birds—and very useful in hunting grouse."

"You have some knowledge of the sport?" inquired the Captain, his eyes regarding Athos keenly.

"A bit." However, in his mind, the reply was a weary _all too much._ A falcon featured on the crest of his family's shield, and his father had been passionate about the birds he chose for his mews. Athos and Thomas had been taught to handle the trained birds of prey respectfully, but firmly, from an early age. Athos had been skilled at handling the peregrine falcons his father favoured, but had never really had a true enthusiasm for the art. Thomas, on the other hand, had shared his father's love for the sport, and often spent long hours in the mews working with the birds. _Another way in which I was a disappointment._

"That will be helpful," mused Treville. "I need the four of you to journey to Fontainebleau to review the security arrangements for the King's visit. You will also each be assigned a candidate to escort during the hunt. I need an impartial assessment of each man's personal strengths and weaknesses. I would prefer that this be done discreetly, as it must appear as if no one is influencing the King's decision. Although—" he allowed himself deprecating smile, "—a well-placed word from me based on the information I glean **could** be enormously helpful to the King."

"I see." Athos inclined his head respectfully. "When are we required to leave?"

"I would like you to leave by noon in order to journey at a pace that will allow you to make a stop along the way, for I have another important task that I have entrusted to Porthos."

Athos gave him an inquiring look, but the Captain had already begun shuffling through some papers on his desk, indicating that their conversation was over. "I would suggest you go and make provision for your journey. I will have the dossiers on the candidates ready for you to take with you by the time you leave. These pages must be kept strictly confidential—eyes only. I do not even want you sharing information amongst yourselves, for I want each musketeer focusing only on his own candidate. Understood?"

"Yes, Captain." Athos bowed, and turned to leave.

"And Athos—"

"Sir?"

Treville's blue eyes were steely as he fixed his gaze on his lieutenant. "I meant what I said. **One** more misstep, **one** more outburst, and you will be placed on administrative leave."

"Understood."

"Good." The Captain glanced up for a moment, then continued to rummage through the pile of documents. "Please inform the stable master to ready your horses, and be so kind as to send the others in for a moment."

"Yes, Captain." As Athos opened the door, his brothers, who had been lounging against the railing, immediately straightening up, their eyes searching his face.

"We are to leave for Fontainebleau by noon. The Captain wishes to speak to the three of you now. I will go and make the necessary preparations with the stable master. And just to be clear—the Captain has reminded me of my duty. I have no wish to think of or discuss any personal matters at present." His expression remote, he brushed past them, and stalked across the courtyard.

"What that man needs is an attitude adjustment," murmured d'Artagnan as they filed into the Captain's office. Porthos closed the door behind him, leaning against it heavily.

"I disagree. What that man needs a night with his wife," responded Aramis with a knowing look.

Treville shook his head in exasperation. "You know, my life would be a whole lot easier if the four of you took monastic vows."

D'Artagnan shuddered, while Aramis gave Treville his trademark rakish grin. "Honestly, Captain, can you imagine **me** living a life of celibacy?"

A gleam appeared in his commander's eyes. "Oh, I have…..many times-for instance, on a day when I come back from a particularly trying meeting with the King and find an angry husband, father, brother, cousin…..fill in the blank with the male relative of your choice-waiting outside my office. In those moments, as I am half listening to a tale that is only too familiar, I have visualized myself marching towards you with a pair of emasculating shears…and then imagined the blessedly peaceful years that would follow."

Aramis gulped, and his hands involuntarily drifted below his weapons belt. "To be frank, that's a little…disturbing, Captain."

"Good. That means I have gotten your attention," replied Treville curtly, shooting the marksman a piercing look. "But for once, Aramis, we are not here to discuss your behavior, but that of Athos. I have already briefed him on your mission to Fontainebleau, and I will leave it to him to give you the details on the journey. For now, we need to discuss Operation RAMB, which is the brainchild of Porthos. He discussed it with me last night, and has obtained my seal of approval."

"RAMB?" inquired d'Artagnan, a look of confusion on his face.

"Restore Athos to the Marital Bed," supplied Porthos, gritting his teeth with determination. "I think we are all in agreement that Charlotte soothes the savage beast of moody angst that lurks within Athos. The weeks they were together gave us a whole new Athos—and I want that man back. As soon as possible."

"So what do you propose? They are both apparently too stubborn to make the first move."

Porthos scowled and placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. "We lock them in a room with a very large, comfortable bed—and refuse to let them out until they make up…preferably via a passionate, uninhibited, and prolonged session of lovemakin'."

"I like the way you think." Aramis murmured, a sly grin on his face. "I do believe the pretty Denise has turned you into a romantic, Porthos."

The big man rolled his eyes. "Aramis, despite what you think, you are not the only one with skill in matters of the heart."

"But how do we get them together?" persisted d'Artagnan. "If either one suspects…."

"Have you no finesse? No imagination?" Aramis sighed, and gave d'Artagnan a reproving look. "Honestly, sometimes I wonder what Constance sees in you. Could you come up with a plan?"

"So I get to be in charge?" d'Artagnan brightened visibly.

"Did I say that, my young friend?" Aramis put an arm around the shoulders of their youngest, clucking his tongue in disapproval. "No, I did not. I merely asked **if **you could come up with a plan. I expect you could, but in all likelihood, the strategy would be either ridiculous or—well, to be blunt—primitive. So, I suggest that you take a step back and let two men of the world show a farm boy how it's done." He winked at Porthos as d'Artagnan glared at him.

Porthos responded to the cue. "The premise is that I have a very important package that the Captain has entrusted me to deliver. And by coincidence, the delivery must be made discreetly at an inn…an inn that happens to be just a mile or two from Denise's village."

"Which is all completely true," noted Treville. "After all, it **is** vital that I have a new dress shirt made as soon as possible. I cannot have Porthos looking better than me at the next formal occasion." Glancing at the big man with an expression that was all innocence, the Captain inquired, "How is it, may I ask, that Denise seems to make all of **your** tailoring projects her first priority?"

"Perhaps she thinks his wardrobe is the worst," cut in Aramis with a grin. "And she'd be right." Ducking to avoid the wrath of his friend, he darted for the door. "I'm off to pack my saddlebags. I expect you have sent word ahead to Denise of the plan?"

Treville nodded. "She knows to have Charlotte at the inn in Saint Bernard by 4:30 today in order to pick up the special delivery of material from Paris. It's up to the three of you to get the two of them together in the room Denise will have reserved. I know it will be a stretch for you, but please try to be subtle."

"Captain." Aramis' voice was reproachful as he disappeared out the door. "Please. Subtle is my middle name."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As the musketeers approached the hamlet of Saint Bernard, Athos inquired, "So, does the Captain expect us to spend the night here?"

"If it's convenient," responded Porthos absently, peering at the circuitous directions that Treville had written down for him.

"Porthos, do you have any idea what the contents of this vital package are? This has been quite a detour from the road to Fontainebleau. It must be important."

"Oh, it's important all right." Aramis smirked at Porthos for an instant, then schooled his face into an expression of careful neutrality when Athos turned around in the saddle to stare at him intently.

"And how do **you **know?" Athos demanded.

Holding his reins carelessly in his hands, Aramis smiled. "My friend, I do not need to know the contents of the package to know that it is important. As you stated, this side trip is adding several hours to our journey. The Captain would **never** do that without an extremely good reason."

"We should be there in a quarter of an hour, from the directions Treville gave us." Porthos squinted at the horizon. "It will be perfect timin'…just before sunset."

Athos sighed. "I just hope the wine cellar is well stocked."

When they rode into the courtyard behind the inn, the men were grateful to finally dismount. Porthos tossed his reins to Aramis. "I'll go and have a word with the innkeeper."

Returning a moment later, he shook his head regretfully. "As luck would have it, there are no rooms left for the night. We will have to move on after we make the delivery. Athos, would you be so kind as to run this package up to the second floor? My horse is favoring his left front leg, and I need to check his shoe. It is the last room on the right. The recipient wishes to pick the package up discreetly, under cover of darkness. You are to leave it on the bed."

"I shall be glad of the chance to be of assistance. I will, however, expect you to have a carafe of wine waiting at a table when I come downstairs. I have worked up a thirst on this ride, and want nothing more than a goblet of good red wine and a few moments in front of a fire. I sense that a stop here will go a long way towards fulfilling my desires."

"Yes, it certainly will—if you play your cards right." murmured Aramis with a chuckle, nudging Porthos as Athos disappeared into the inn.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Charlotte had grown tired of waiting, and was pacing the floor. In truth, she was somewhat annoyed at her cousin for insisting that she be the one to pick up this very crucial material from Paris, and wondered why on earth the delivery had to be made in the secrecy of a guest room. _Contraband lace? Is there such a thing?_

The room was lovely, to be sure, but it was already becoming quite dark, and she had no candle to hand. Deciding to have one last look into the courtyard, she pushed aside the heavy, floor-length drapes that covered the window seat. As she peered out through the glass, she heard the door scrape open, then close softly.

Footsteps came closer as the intruder approached the bed. Whoever was in the room was stealthy, and obviously wanted to escape detection. Charlotte found herself shrinking back against the window, sure that this was not the person she was meant to meet. Suddenly, her elbow knocked over a small copper vase that was sitting on the windowsill. It fell to the floor with a crash, and the footsteps halted. She held her breath when they started up again, advancing towards her hiding place.

An overwhelming desire to escape the confined space came over her, and she decided to make a run for the door, determined to put up a fight if necessary. Clenching her fists to her side, she took a deep breath, then burst out from behind the curtains. She barreled past the figure she dimly sighted to her left, and was almost to the door when an arm wrapped around her waist. She was about to scream when a hand clapped over her mouth, and she began to struggle in earnest.

Her attempts to free herself were futile, and she found herself thrown onto the bed. As she rolled to her right, her progress was arrested when she was pinned face down to the mattress, an unmistakably male body weighing her down.

The steady breathing of the intruder suddenly changed, and he took in a deep, ragged breath. Real fear began to descend upon her as she felt his breath on her neck, and she tried desperately to think of a means of escape. However, when he began to murmur softly, his lips exploring the exposed skin of her shoulder, she froze.

"This is not **quite** the reunion I had pictured us having, but apparently forces beyond our control have decided otherwise. Perhaps that is just as well, for I had forgotten how incredibly distracting you can be, my wife."

* * *

**Any predictions as to Charlotte's reaction? Athos seems to have thawed slightly...**


	4. Chapter 4

_"Honesty is the first chapter in the book of wisdom."_

_Thomas Jefferson_

* * *

**CHAPTER IV**

"I…" Charlotte stopped, consciously steadying her voice as the sensation of his touch threatened to overwhelm her. As if sensing the longing that was surging through her body, Athos gently turned her over to face him. Hands trembling ever so slightly, she wove her fingers into his hair, drawing him close enough that their foreheads almost touched. "I dreamt about you…just last night."

"So did I." His voice was as husky and magnetic as ever, and he leaned over to kiss her cheek. His beard whispered against her skin, and she shivered with the exquisite memory of their wedding night. He moved on to her other cheek. "Tell me about yours, and we can compare notes. Although I must warn you—mine is a bit erotic."

She laughed softly. "There is **so much** I want to tell you." The light in the room was very dim now, and she could barely see the outline of his face. _How I wish I could see his eyes_, she thought wistfully. The masculine scent of his leather mingled with the sweet smell of the lavender-scented pillow, and she felt herself becoming lightheaded with the input she was receiving from her senses.

"There will be plenty of time for talking—later." His mouth dipped to meet hers, and she closed her eyes, focusing on the feeling of his hands as they began to re-explore her body. She tentatively mirrored his actions, and a low hum of satisfaction arose from his throat. Pausing for a moment, he quickly shrugged off his doublet, tossing it impatiently to the floor.

As his skillful fingers slid under her skirt, causing her to arch her body against him in pleasure, he murmured, "I want us to have a new beginning."

"So do I!" Charlotte gasped, tears of joy coming to her eyes. "You have no idea how much I wanted to hear you say that!"

His lips traced the swell of her breasts, which had somehow made themselves apparent above the modest neckline of her dress. When he spoke next, his voice was thick with desire. "I must be honest…the thought of you surrendering to me in this way—agreeing to let the past be the past—makes me want nothing more than to possess you, body and soul." Tugging his shirt over his head, he leaned down to her, only to be given a mighty shove. Taken completely by surprise, he sprawled backwards across the bed.

"What was **that** for?" he demanded, mystified by the sudden change in her mood.

"**Really?**" came the icy retort. "**You have to ask?**" She pounced on top of him. "It is difficult to decide which insinuation in the statement I just heard is the most insulting."

Uncannily mimicking the mesmerizingly low timbre of his voice, she purred, " 'Charlotte, darling, let me seduce you within moments of us reuniting after three lonely weeks apart. A few moments alone with my magnificent body, and you will forget I ever snapped at you when you begged me to be honest.' "

"That is NOT what I was trying to say!" he protested. She clamped a hand firmly over his mouth, effectively cutting him off.

"You are **not t**he Comte de la Fère when you are with me in bed! I will not be interrupted!" she snapped, her voice escalating in fury. "The other message implicit in your little speech just then is equally demeaning! 'My sweet wife, I can read your mind, and I am so sure you that want nothing more than to accept my behavior without question, for all women secretly love to be told what to think!' "

Out in the hallway, Porthos winced at the sound of Charlotte's voice raised in anger, and Aramis leaned his head against the wall, cursing the fact that he had not given Athos a strict script to follow. "It's getting hot in there all right—but for all the wrong reasons, I'm afraid. You **did** already lock the door, didn't you?"

"The key is safe and secure right here in my pocket." Porthos grinned, patting his leather doublet. "Neither one is getting out of that room until they learn to play nicely together again."

Pushing her hand away from his mouth, Athos glared at the shape looming over him. "I do NOT have to listen to this. Do you **really** think I am an insensitive brute that wants to treat you like a plaything? Or a possession?!"

"Do you **really** want an honest answer to that question?"

Thrusting her off of him, he rolled off the bed and pulled his shirt on, then stalked to the door. "This conversation is over, because I am leaving. When you are ready to start acting like an adult instead of a three year old, let me know!"

"Now **that** is the pot calling the kettle black!" she retorted, settling back against the pillows. "Good luck finding a comfortable place to sleep. The inn is full…but I'm sure there is some space for you in the stables with the other animals!"

Growling in annoyance, he wrenched the door knob, expecting to make a dramatic retreat. When nothing happened, he frowned and tried again. Rattling the knob, he swore under his breath. "It appears as if we have been locked in."

"What?" she exclaimed. Darting out of bed, she was by his side an instant, pushing him out of the way. "Here, let me try. Perhaps you are trying to **dominate **it—" she glared at him, "-instead of treating it as an equal."

Athos was about to make a sarcastic reply when he thought the better of it, and leaned against the wall, watching in amusement as she tried to work the knob into opening through a series of delicate moves, then descended rapidly into frustration, slapping the door in annoyance.

"**Who** is making an attempt at subjugation now?" he inquired smugly.

"Enough!" she hissed at him, then aimed her comments at the door. "Porthos! Aramis! I see your handiwork in this little maneuver. Open up now! I will not be confined with a man who does not respect me!"

A note slid under the door.

"Have you any idea how dark it is in here?" Athos growled at the door. "How do you expect us to read that?! There is not even one candle in this room."

Some shuffling was heard in the hallway, and eventually a narrow taper was shoved unceremoniously under the door, followed by a match. Lighting the candle, Athos held it up so Charlotte could read the few lines that had been scrawled on the paper.

"Rules of engagement for operation RAMB?" she read, her voice confused. "What is this all about? Not funny, boys!" she yelled at the door.

"If they are determined to act like children, we will have to play along with their game," muttered Athos. "Go ahead and read it. What does RAMB mean anyway?

Charlotte furrowed her brow. "I'm not sure—it doesn't say. There **is** a list of rules though. I'll read them."

" 'Rule number 1—Barring a fire that has not been deliberately set by yourselves, you are both staying in this room until dawn—so we advise you to get comfortable—the less clothes, the better says Aramis.' "

She scowled. "I'm not liking this already."

Athos shrugged noncommittally. "It is what it is. Continue."

" 'Rule number 2-Athos is to remember that Charlotte has been through a series of devastating events—" her throat tightened with emotion as she continued on "- in the past month—her father's death, the loss of the only home she has ever known, and the destruction of the business that she had devoted her life to. ' "

She fell silent, and Athos put the candle in a holder that sat on a small table by the door. She suddenly looked very young in the glow of the candlelight, and he felt remorse for having forgotten that her world had been turned upside down in a matter of weeks. He was used to danger, violence, and a constant change of scenery-she was not. Moreover, she had gone from never having had a serious relationship to being married to a man who, if he was honest with himself, had a rather extensive collection of emotional baggage.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, folding her into his arms. "They are right. I have not stopped to think of how much difficult all these changes must be for you. Please forgive me."

Charlotte leaned her cheek against his chest, and slowed her breathing to synchronize with her husband's. "It means a lot for me to hear you say that."

"I should have said it sooner." His voice was filled with regret. Taking the paper from her hand, he scanned the lines, then raised an eyebrow as he passed it back to her. "There is a lot to go over here. Perhaps we should start a fire and make the best of the situation? After all, it appears as if we will be here for the rest of the night."

She smiled in response. "Go ahead. I'll find a blanket and read the next section while you kindle the fire."

Rummaging around in a large chest at the foot of the bed, she found a soft woolen blanket and carried it over to the rug in front of the fire. Retrieving some pillows from the bed, Charlotte curled up on her side on the floor. She found herself watching Athos while he coaxed the fire into a cheery blaze. The defined muscles of his back slid smoothly under his shirt as he tossed several more logs on to the flames. Charlotte swallowed, her mouth becoming dry as she pictured herself removing his shirt, then wrapping her arms around him, pressing her lips against his spine.

As if he knew what she was thinking, he turned around and gave her the little half-smile that always melted her insides. "I thought you were going to keep reading."

"I am," she said quickly, clearing her throat. "I was just resting my voice for a moment."

Sliding next to her and turning on his side to face her, he placed a possessive hand on his waist. "Resting your voice?" he inquired, his voice low and teasing. "Whatever for? Do you anticipate keeping the rest of the inn awake with your cries of ecstasy?"

"I believe you are fantasizing again, my husband," came the serene answer. "Time to come back down to reality. 'Rule number 3—Charlotte is to remember that Athos has had more than his share of heartbreak and betrayal in his life—" She stopped and looked at him, her eyes softening as she saw a shadow pass over his face. Running a hand tenderly over his strong jaw, she continued, "—and does not easily entrust his heart to anyone. Despite the adversity he has faced, he is one of the most loyal and honorable men in all of France, and would never intentionally do anything to hurt her.' "

"Wise words," she observed, drawing close to him and touching her lips to his once, then twice.

Emotion filling his eyes, he murmured, "Charlotte, I want very much for you to believe that. I could never and **would never **hurt you. My world was a very dark place before I met you. I was a bitter, angry shell of a man who had very little to look forward at the end of a day other than the familiar comfort of a bottle of wine—or two. Your love has saved me from my worst enemy—myself. I am indebted to you—more than you could possibly imagine."

Drawing her close, he kissed the top of her head, and settled her against his chest. "The peace I feel with you next to me is unlike any I have ever known."

Overcome by the gentle sincerity in his words, she handed the paper back to him, and listened to the steady beat of his heart as he read to her.

" 'Rule number 4—You may not tackle any topics of serious contention until you have partaken of the repast we have provided for you. Several bottles of wine, along with a hamper of delicacies, can be found in the armoire next to the fireplace.' " Athos' chest rumbled under her with laughter. "I must admit, they have thought of everything. Let me slip away for a moment to locate this basket of delights."

Opening the armoire, he found the well-stocked hamper, and carried it triumphantly over to their place in front of the fire. Lifting the lid, Charlotte found a delicate white lace tablecloth and two beautifully wrought silver goblets. "Do you think Denise was complicit in all of this?"

"I have no doubt on that score" replied Athos, leaning back on his elbow and grinning as she presented him with a bottle of fine red wine. "Do you think three men could produce such a display without help from a woman? What else is in there?"

A loaf of bread, still with a glow of warmth from the oven, and a small dish of butter followed, as did a handsome wheel of cheese and a crock of hearty beef stew-the latter still amazingly piping hot. They ate together companionably, Athos ladling the stew into two large bowls that had been left on top of the basket.

He had not realized how hungry he was until he finished his second bowl and drained his second glass of wine. Leaning back on the pillow, he sighed in satisfaction. "I almost feel sleepy now."

"So do I," agreed Charlotte. "Perhaps a short nap? It's still early, after all…it must be only about 5:30."

"That sounds lovely," he replied, his eyelids already growing heavy as he reached for her with a smile. "Come here and warm my body, my young bride." When she snuggled against him, the fatigue of the past few days overcame them, and they both fell into the first relaxed sleep that either had had in weeks.

When Athos awoke several hours later, he opened his eyes to find Charlotte curled tightly against him, holding on to his hand as if it was her lifeline. Watching her sleep peacefully, he felt his body begin to stir with desire. He had not realized until that moment how much he had missed her…the sweet smile that she reserved just for him—the way her frame molded into his when they slept-and the joy that she took in life—and him.

As he pressed her hand to his lips, she murmured and turned towards him. "Athos." Her voice was full of contentment, and his heart soared in response. "I love you," he said softly. Her eyelids fluttered open. "Feeling better?"

"Much," she said, absently toying with the wedding ring on her finger.

"We do have one more rule left to read—I believe it's on the back. Shall I?"

"Go ahead."

" 'Rule number 5—You may not tackle any topics of serious contention until you are lying together in bed –naked-with your arms around each other.' " His eyes glinted in the firelight. "I am liking these rules more and more as we go along."

"You don't seriously mean to abide by them?" Her voice was incredulous.

"Problem?" he inquired, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Well, I…I suppose.."

"Good," he said with satisfaction, scooping her up and playfully tossing her onto the bed. Bouncing up, she seized his shirt and pulled it over his head. "Two can play at that game."

"The more the merrier," he grinned. "After all, I have no intention of doing all the work."

Moments later, Charlotte wrestled him under the covers, pinning his arms to his side.

"Finally, I have you **exactly** where I want you. Now I have something to say to you, Monsieur le Comte, and I would advise you to listen very, very carefully—because I am not going to say this twice."

His eyes crinkled in amusement. "I am at your mercy."

She took in a deep breath. "Athos, I love you with all my heart—but marriage is still a very new concept for me. I had always envisioned marrying a man who would share his joys and fears-his failures and successes-his past and his future-openly and readily. That does not come naturally to you, and I have to accept that—**but** it does not mean I have to like it, and it does **not** mean that you are excused from working at improving your communication skills. If there is a topic that is off limits because it is a matter of national security or because it involves the safety of someone who is important to you-or that you once loved-I will respect that, no matter how uncomfortable it makes me—but I will do so **only** if you swear to me that you will never betray my trust in you."

He looked at her then as if he was seeing her—truly seeing her-for the first time. "You are a remarkable woman, Charlotte Gaillard d'Athos, and I swear on my life that I will never lie to you or betray your trust in me." Relaxing, she released his arms, and Athos drew her down to lay against his chest. As they lay next to each other, skin to skin, he said quietly. "I no longer want to argue."

Her hair spilling across his shoulders, she slanted her eyes up at him. "Neither do I. How do you propose we spend the rest of the evening then?"

"I thought I might show you how much I love you," he murmured, toying with a lock of her hair as his blue eyes raked the length of her body.

"Care to elaborate?" she inquired with a seductive smile, her hand gliding across his chest.

"Hmm…well, I could…but I also am quite good at taking requests. Tell me exactly what you want, and I will do my best to satisfy you."

"I want you to be honest and true—to yourself and to us."

"I promise, my love-but perhaps I should take this time to confess that I was not completely truthful this evening before I took the vow you asked of me a moment ago."

"You lied?" She sat up, and was about to slap him when he caught her arm.

"All in the name of love!" he protested. "And it worked brilliantly!"

"You had better explain—and quickly—or you will be sleeping on the floor tonight!"

"Rule number 5—" he said hastily. "The one-"

"I know which one it is!" she retorted impatiently. "The naked and arms-around-each other technique for hashing out quarrels. Yes?"

"Well, I sort of—embellished the original rule 5," he murmured sheepishly.

"Give me that paper!" she demanded.

"Come and get it," he retorted. "It's under my pillow."

After a struggle that lasted several minutes, she finally succeeded in snatching the document from his grasp, and scanned Rule 5 quickly.

"Athos—please! You should be ashamed of yourself! All it says is "You may not tackle any topics of serious contention unless you are holding hands."

"Tell me you did not enjoy it," he replied smugly. "And it got the job done much faster than holding hands by the fire, that's for sure. Now that I have confessed, what is my penance? I am at your mercy once again."

She thought for a moment, then whispered in his ear.

He glanced at her in mock shock, then gave her an approving smile. "And I thought you were a demure, sheltered young lady. Very creative, my wanton little wife."

Several minutes later, Porthos and Aramis passed by the room one last time, and halted for a moment outside the door. A squeal of laughter identifiable as Charlotte's was quickly followed by a low, masculine moan of pleasure.

They exchanged a look, and Porthos reluctantly took out ten livres and handed it over to the marksman. "It was **almost **8," he said, sulking a bit over the losing the bet.

"Almost, but not quite. You predicted after 8, I said it would be before." Aramis grinned as he pocketed his winnings. "Never bet against young love, my friend."

"Keep movin'!" Porthos pushed Aramis forward as another laugh came from the room. "This is way too much for my innocent ears. I feel like I'm at Madame Angel's."

**Many thanks to all who have reviewed and favorited, including guests I can't thank personally by PM (Alexandra). The comments you leave often have me laughing and rereading several times with a big smile on my face! I hope you enjoyed this chapter of fluff with the lovebirds! Things are about to get darker soon...**


	5. Chapter 5

_"At his best, man is the noblest of all animals; separated from law and justice he is the worst."_

Aristotle

* * *

**CHAPTER V**

The next morning, a clear-eyed, relaxed Athos was settled in a comfortable chair in the common room of the inn when his three friends stumbled in, cranky and sleep deprived. Putting down the book he was reading, he leaned back, regarding them with a sunny smile. The effect was such a marked contrast to his usual morning appearance that d'Artagnan blinked, wondering if he was dreaming.

"Why are **you** looking so well rested?" inquired Aramis pointedly.

"Oh, I think you know the answer to that," replied Athos affably. "May I just say that you three are the best friends a man could ask for? What you did for me last night…it was just—exceptional—and so loving. Words cannot describe the experience, but I will never forget it."

"Are you talking about what **we** did or about your night of connubial bliss?" Aramis asked with a smirk. "Thank you for doing your duty by your wife rather quickly, by the way. I won a handy sum from Porthos." Athos shot a questioning look at the marksman, but merely received a snicker in response.

"Well, I'm glad **some of you** had a night to remember," muttered d'Artagnan.

"What are **you** complainin' about?" Porthos growled, brushing some straw out of his hat. "You didn't sleep in the barn! Aramis and I had to share a bed of hay with a family of goats!"

"I would hardly call sharing a room with an old man who snored like a drunk hog comfortable!"

"Enough, my children." Athos' calm voice floated over them like a benediction. "You will all end up benefitting from my good fortune this morning. I have escorted my dear wife back to her cousin's abode, and have not returned empty-handed, thanks to Denise."

He indicated a large hamper, and the three men fell on in. Within seconds, they were eagerly devouring the flaky croissants, which had been liberally slathered with farm fresh butter and tangy gooseberry jam.

Porthos sidled over to Athos. "Did Denise—" he coughed slightly, then collected himself, speaking in a low, urgent voice. "Send anythin' special for me?"

"Such as?" Athos kept a carefully neutral face.

"Oh, I don't know," the big man replied, attempting to appear casual. "Perhaps some sort of…pastry?"

"Ah, that reminds me." Athos' face took on an expression of the sincerest regret. "The cream puffs—she had no time this morning. I **was** instructed to offer you her most humble apologies, and to assure you that she have something sweet for you when you next visit." Seeing Porthos' crestfallen face, he added mischievously, "And there may be a cream puff waiting for you as well."

Aramis and d'Artagnan whooped at his comment, causing Porthos to flush. He stalked out of the room, heading for the stables.

"Sensitive," commented d'Artagnan.

"He'll have to get over that," commented Aramis dryly. "Especially if he has any intention of pursuing a relationship with Denise."

An hour later, they were on their way to the King's hunting lodge. After a ride of less than a half an hour, they reached the outskirts of the Forest of Fontainebleau.

"Looks forbidding," observed d'Artagnan uneasily, surveying the heavy growth of oak and European beech.

Aramis scoffed. "Very scary. Trees—birds—squirrels—the stuff of nightmares."

"I can't help it!" retorted a defensive d'Artagnan. "I grew up on a farm! I like open fields, rolling hills…I don't like feeling like I'm trapped—it makes me antsy when I can't see past hundreds of trees."

"Me too," echoed Porthos, gazing into the darker depths of the forest. "At least in the Court, you always could see what you were up against."

"I think you both have overactive imaginations." Although Aramis was relaxed in the saddle, his eyes wandered along the border of the woods, and his voice had become remote. "Now if you had been through an experience like Savoy, and if this forest were to remind you of that one…."

Porthos slowed his horse, instinctively moving next to his friend. "It doesn't—don't worry," muttered Aramis, his voice low and bitter. "That forest was a killing field—a sea of corpses littered across the frozen ground, and all of them my friends." Trying to shake off the cloud that had settled over him, he forced a smile. "This is an entirely different vista. What could be closer to a picture of pastoral beauty then what we are seeing before us? Come on, I'll race you to the trees!" Without waiting for a response, he was off.

"Cheater!" yelled d'Artagnan, urging his mount after him. Porthos and Athos exchanged grins, then fell in behind them. Thundering into the forest, Aramis slowed down only a fraction, reveling in the tangy scent of the tall pines. The air was clear and cold, and the morning seemed to be made for a bracing ride along the picturesque path that wound through the trees. Whooping with excitement as he neared a hard turn, Aramis skillfully negotiated the curve to the right, disappearing from d'Artagnan's field of vision for several seconds.

D'Artagnan spurred his horse on, determined not to lose ground on his friend. As he rounded the corner, however, he had to rein in his mount sharply in order to avoid running smack into Aramis, who inexplicably had stopped. He was staring down the path, eyes fixed on something ahead of them.

"What the-" began d'Artagnan in annoyance, then froze as his gaze followed that of Aramis. The path ahead of them opened into a small clearing, which was centered on a massive oak tree that was likely three hundred years old. The branches of the oak, lacking the luxuriant green leaves of summer, were barren and twisted, giving the area around it a desolate, forbidding aura. However, it was the corpse hanging from the tree that made the sight one that would give d'Artagnan intermittent nightmares for years to come.

The body was that of a middle-aged man, stripped to the waist, bony ribs protruding from his thin frame. He was suspended upside down, his feet bound to a rope that was tied to one of the sturdy lower branches of the tree. Head about six feet off the ground, he was perfectly positioned to be in the direct visual field of any passersby.

D'Artagnan faintly heard two horses being wrestled to a halt just behind them, and dimly realized that Athos and Porthos had caught up. Dismounting from his horse, he walked slowly towards the dead body, unable to look away despite his fervent wish to do exactly that. As the corpse swung gently in the breeze, the musketeer saw that the man's throat had been slit. This had appeared to have been done after he had been strung up by his feet, as a large slick of blood had collected on the ground under his head.

Aramis appeared at his side, and crossed himself with his right hand, while his left clutched the jeweled crucifix around his neck. "What kind of savage, demented human being does something like this?"

"Good question," replied Porthos grimly. "But it appears as if they left a calling card."

Squatting down a few feet from the pool of blood, he pointed to a dagger that was stuck into the earth just at the center of the crimson stain. As Porthos reached for the blade, Athos' trembling voice was heard at the edge of the clearing, grief and anger infusing every one of the words he spoke.

"I know this man. His name is Jacques Boisvert. He was the blacksmith at la Fère when I was a boy." His eyes, cold with rage, were riveted on the lifeless form in front of him. "Jacques was one of the kindest, most honorable men I have ever met. His death will not go unavenged."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

An hour later, Jacques' body had been buried in a shallow grave outside the clearing, and the musketeers turned their attention to the dagger. "It's an unusual piece," murmured Aramis, inspecting the finely honed steel. The knife was about eight inches long, and had an intricate design traced on the blade.

"What is **that**?" asked d'Artagnan, squinting over Aramis' shoulder.

"It appears to be a black rose, with a pair of angel wings affixed to it." The marksman glanced at Athos. "Someone spent a good deal of time painstakingly crafting this. Any idea what it means?"

Athos shook his head. "I've never seen anything like it. Are there any other identifying marks?"

"There." Porthos pointed at several letters that had been inscribed on the steel directly below the hilt. "Could those be the initials of the owner?"

"M.G.R." read d'Artagnan. "I suppose it's possible."

"Jacques—his family has no idea. I must find them." Athos would have appeared calm to someone who did not know him, but Aramis sensed that their leader's thoughts were in turmoil. His keen eyes noted that Athos almost seemed to have gone into a sort of trance-like state. He first methodically checked every item in his weapons belt, then inspected every inch of his horse's tack. Once satisfied, he swung into the saddle.

"Give me an hour. If I have not returned by then, tarry no longer. I will meet you at Fontainebleau tomorrow morning." Wheeling his horse around, he rode off, his posture unnaturally tense.

As he skirted the eastern edge of the forest, Athos was careful to keep his horse within several yards of the tall pine trees. The closer he got to la Fère, the more he felt stifled by his the memories of his past. Athos was very much a man who felt that honor should be earned, not given as a birthright. The very concept of aristocratic titles, along with the trappings and ceremony that came with them, made him uneasy.

Ever since he had been young, Athos had found it hard to believe that a mere accident of birth made him more worthy of respect and deference than other men. He had voiced these misgivings once to his father, who had been quick to let him know that to even think such a thing bordered on blasphemy. In addition, it was disrespectful to his forbearers, some of whom had given their lives in service to the Crown. Thomas, however, had had no such qualms about being a member of the aristocracy. He accepted it as the natural order of things that the blood running through his veins was special. _You should have been born first_, thought Athos morosely for the thousandth time_. Things would have been very different. _

As a young man, he had been uncomfortable with all the appearances he was expected to make, and the events at court that were required of him. Baptisms, weddings, balls, funerals….all of them were mandatory for the Comte or his heir to attend—and as he had grown into adulthood, his father had made sure that Athos took over most of the responsibility for representing the family.

It was not that Athos disliked the people on his estate—quite the contrary. He was loved and respected by them, and he knew virtually all of them by name. He was always glad to help a young father repair a damaged roof, or to assist an elderly widow during spring lambing season. One-on-one or small group settings allowed him to break through the awed silence that many of his tenants seemed exhibit around members of his family. However, when he was representing the la Fère estate at formal affair, the conversation often felt forced, and the clothing oppressive.

He tried to think of the words he would use to tell Jacques' wife of thirty years that her husband had been murdered, and memories of Marie Boisvert came flooding into his mind. She had been the midwife on the estate, and had been responsible for the birth of hundreds of children. By the time he had left la Fère, she was semi-retired, and merely served as an assistant when needed for her daughter, who had succeeded her as midwife. Ever since he could remember, Marie had been a cheerful, bustling presence, quick with a hug for a child or a word of advice for a young mother. She obviously adored her quiet, gentle husband, and Athos wondered how she would carry on after his death.

As he reached the outskirts of Pinon, he sighted the Boisverts' stone house. It was small and cosy, and stood at the northernmost edge of the town. His heart began to pound, and he dismounted, leading his horse the last fifty yards in order to give himself time to collect his thoughts_. Aramis, Porthos, d'Artagnan—none of them are of noble blood, yet they are all men that I would give my life for. They would do the same for me- not because of my title, but because I have earned their respect and their trust by my actions and my words. _

_Then be the man you want to be_. The words came to him like a whisper on the breeze, and he stopped, overcome by the memory. _I have not thought of that night in so long._

* * *

He had had a blazing row with his father after dinner one day in May. _Why can't you be like Thomas? _Sebastian d'Athos had demanded angrily. _If this is the approach you intend to take as the future ruler of this estate, then God help this family! _Athos had stalked out of the house, his body tense with anger. It had been almost sunset, and he had restlessly walked along the bank of the Loire River, chafing at the expectations that seemed to haunt his every step._ It is like my whole life was decided for me from the moment I was born._

It was then that he saw her, sitting against the trunk of a stately oak tree. She was bent over a portfolio, intent on her sketching. Her long hair, the color of ripened autumn wheat, hung like a veil in front of her delicate features. When a gust of wind came up, she impatiently brushed the hair out of her eyes, then caught sight of him and smiled.

She waved, expecting him to continue on to a destination in Pinon. When he slowed his pace and made to approach her, she hastily closed her portfolio, and carefully laid it in her lap.

Dropping to the ground next to her, he exhaled. "Somehow it seems much more peaceful out here."

Her face clouded. "Olivier—what happened?"

"The specifics do not matter. The fundamental problem is that no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, I will always be second best to Thomas in my father's eyes. I should never have been the first born, Annette. I don't want this life. I don't want people treating me a certain way because of my name. I want them to respect me for who I am…not who I am supposed to be."

"And who do you want to be?" she asked softly.

"A man of my **own** making. A man who is able to choose his path in life. I want to have the freedom to decide where I will live, whom I will marry, and how I will make my mark on the world. I want to spend my life doing something that gives me fulfillment and peace. I do not have the personality or the passion for the life of a Comte-and that is becoming more and more apparent with every passing day."

She had leaned over him and run a hand across this forehead, gently smoothing back the mass of hair that stubbornly refused to be tamed. "Then be the man you want to be."

_If only it were that simple._

* * *

**Quite a shift in mood from the last chapter...thank you to everyone who is continuing to read along! The action soon moves to Fontainebleau, with the King, the Queen, and the Dauphin arriving...**


	6. Chapter 6

_"Shadow owes it birth to light."_

John Gay

* * *

**CHAPTER VI**

Closing his eyes for a moment, Athos willed himself to forget how wonderful Annette's cooling touch had felt on his skin, which had still been flushed with anger. This was just one more reason he hated coming to Pinon. Inevitably, memories better left buried deep in his soul would resurface, sometimes causing him sleepless nights for days on end.

Hitching his horse to the post in front of the house, he took a deep breath and knocked on the heavy oaken door, his knuckles scraping against the weathered wood. Hearing no response, he knocked again, more firmly this time. Cocking his head, he thought he heard a weak cry from inside the house. The words were indistinguishable, but someone was definitely at home. Cautiously trying the door, he found it unlocked, and opened it a fraction.

"Madame Marie?" he called out. "It's Olivier d'Athos. May I come in?"

"Olivier?" The word, drawn out in a hiss of pain, floated to him across the room.

Advancing into the main room, he shut the door carefully.

Silence. Then he heard the sound of labored breathing. Squinting in the dim light, he saw an emaciated woman lying on a narrow bed that was pushed against the wall, close to the hearth. The fire had long since died out, and the air in the room was damp and cold. The woman was covered with several blankets, but Athos could see she was shivering. He looked around for Marie, wondering why she had left her patient alone.

"Madame? May I be of assistance?"

Her dull eyes turned to face him, and he was shocked beyond words. _Marie_. The midwife was almost unrecognizable. Her once thick, dark hair was now a sickly grey-white, and was thin and sparse. The face that had once lit up with joy to see him when he was a boy now was lined with suffering.

She gazed at him in stupefied confusion. "Oliver…you've come home…but it's too late! Jacques is gone…he was summoned yesterday. He knew there was no way out—he was a dead man. Is that why you are here? Did you see —" she choked, tears starting to roll down her face.

He knelt by the bed, and took her wasted hand in his, kissing the knuckles gently.

"Madame, you must rest. Where is your daughter?"

"Gone…she and her husband went into the forest to look for Jacques. Of course, only the Knowing Ones are privy to the location of the court…but the sentence had likely already been passed down, so all that was left to do was to execute him."

She shifted on the pillows, grimacing in pain. Her eyes locking on his, she begged, "Tell me the truth, please! If I know his suffering is over, as least I can die in peace."

Athos looked at her with compassion. "Yes, he is at peace now."

She exhaled slowly, seeming to sink into the bed as her lungs slowly deflated. "Thank you for being honest. You always were a good boy, Olivier."

"Madame Marie, Jacques was one of the best men I have ever known. Surely there is nothing he could have done that would have merited execution. Who are these Knowing Ones? And what quarrel did they have with Jacques?"

She stared at him vacantly. "You don't have any idea, do you? But of course you wouldn't. The Archangels only became active in the year or so before you left la Fère…and of course you had other things on your mind." Hesitating, she fell silent.

"There **were** many distractions for me at the time," Athos murmured uncomfortably. "I have never heard of the Archangels. What sort of a group are they?"

Madame Boisvert closed her eyes, and a bitter laugh escaped her lips. "That is **exactly** the point. No one knows who they are, or where they meet, or what their ultimate aims are. During the time when your family was in upheaval, justice was not always easy to obtain. The King's courts are far away in Paris, and the people of Pinon relied on the Comte de la Fère to provide security for the lands of the estate. Historically, when the Comte has been weak or disinterested, the people suffer, and crime multiplies."

"So during the last year of my father's life—" Athos stopped for a moment, then marshalled his thoughts and continued, "—there were injustices that were committed—that he was unaware of?"

"He was unaware because he **chose **to be," Marie's voice had suddenly shown a spark of her former vigor. "Your father was always generous to Jacques, and I suppose I have no right to complain. But when your mother became ill, and then you married against his wishes, the Comte was full of hurt and rage, and he lost all interest in affairs outside the walls of the chateau."

"It was not my intention to hurt him." Athos' voice was even, but despite her dulling thought processes, Marie sensed the guilt underneath his calm exterior.

"I know that, my dear. I am not making an excuse for him, or blaming you. But in any event, the area around Pinon became increasingly lawless. Petty crime grew more common, and your father had not the time or the inclination to hear the complaints of those who had been wronged. By the time he began to show some inclination towards becoming involved again, the power balance in the area had shifted, and a small group called the Archangels of Justice had assumed the task of maintaining law and order. In the years since you left la Fère, they have only grown in power. And whereas their aims had once been noble, of late they have dealt out death sentences based only on an accusation from one of their own."

She stopped to catch her breath for a moment, then continued. "Only the most rudimentary details of their operations are known. Membership is secret, and the accused are summoned to trial by a notice nailed to their door in the dead of night. The signature at the bottom is always 'The Knowing Ones,' which is what the members of the group are called. The trial is held at night, and the judges are hooded. If the accused is found innocent, he walks free. If he is found guilty, he is immediately executed."

"There are no other possible punishments?" asked Athos in disbelief.

She shook her head.

"And what did Jacques do to deserve execution?"

"He stole a chicken.

"Pardon?" Athos could not hide his shock. "I cannot picture Jacques as a thief!"

She shuddered. "I could not either…at least not six months ago. But he has been too old for blacksmith work for several years...his joints pain him very badly. Food has been scarce, with the harvest having been so poor…" Although she fought the urge to blame the man in front of her, Marie could not hold back the anger that crept into her voice. "But of course **you **would not be aware of that."

He stared at the floor, acknowledging her silent rebuke. "I am so sorry. What can I do to help?"

Her eyes filled with tears again. "Nothing now! My husband is dead! Dead because he stole a chicken to make me some soup! I begged him not to resort to theft. I know I am dying—this wasting disease has been whittling my body away for months. What is the point of prolonging it? But he could not stand to see me wasting away, so he took a chicken from one of the larger farms outside Pinon, hoping to tempt me to eat by making a rich broth. Apparently someone saw him—and it only takes an accusation from one of the Knowing Ones to trigger a trial."

"But even if he was guilty, how can one execute a man for trying to feed his starving wife?"

"They have no tolerance for any sort of crime—and they can do **anything** they want," Marie whispered, her voice growing weak. "There is no one to stop them."

Athos sucked in his breath. During the drunken haze he had descended into after Thomas' death and Anne's hanging, he had refused to open any correspondence, or to see petitioners from Pinon. Due to his neglect, a family of four had been murdered by a neighbor who had been terrorizing them-all because he had failed in his duty. It had been that event which had pulled him out of his tailspin, and had focused him towards trying to find a new purpose for his life.

His commission as a musketeer had given him the drive he had lacked, as well as a noble calling—to preserve the peace, and make sure that justice was served. The bitter irony was that in protecting the King and the people of Paris, he had left behind the inhabitants of Pinon—vulnerable people who had depended on his family for years to uphold the law.

The guilt was overwhelming. "I cannot begin to express how sorry I am. I have failed not only you, but all the people of Pinon. I thought that by moving away and starting a new life, I could redeem myself. I felt I had already done enough damage here. I thought you would all be better off without me."

Marie looked at him, compassion in her eyes. "I forgive you, Olivier. You were a young man, and you had been through a very difficult period." She hesitated, and seemed to be weighing whether or not to continue. She finally took a ragged breath, and spoke.

"I have not many days left, Olivier. I can feel the life force draining out of my body. It may be a day, it may be two…but I doubt I will last a week. In a way, your appearance today has been a gift from God. I have carried a secret with me for some years now that I may now unburden myself of—but only to you."

Athos felt a sense of foreboding_. I am not sure I want to hear this_. "Madame, you must rest yourself," he urged her. "There is no need to wear yourself out on my account."

"Do not argue with me, young man," she murmured fondly, squeezing his hand. "You were one of the first babies I brought into this world." Pausing, her eyes fixed on his. "So it was only fitting that it was I who delivered your daughter."

The room suddenly seemed to close in on Athos, and he could not breathe. He felt the blood drain from his face, and knew he was close to fainting.

"Breathe, son, breathe!" Marie pleaded, clenching his hand even tighter. "You **must **hear me! I will not wait for a second opportunity, as it may not come."

Athos swallowed, his throat painfully constricting. "I have no daughter," he whispered.

"You know that is not true," she said gently. "I knew as soon as I saw that baby girl. She was so beautiful, Olivier. And Annette was so brave. It was a very difficult labor. I was truly afraid at one point that I would lose her."

"But—how?" He still felt lightheaded. Even though he had heard it from Annette's lips during that one brief meeting a year after they had parted, the idea that he had a child—a real, breathing daughter, who laughed and skipped through the fields with his blood flowing though her veins—it was almost incomprehensible.

"Her mother was determined that no one but myself would deliver her grandchild. Hélène had already essentially taken over the duties of village midwife, so my absence for a week was not really noted."

"Where?" His voice was barely audible.

"Dijon."

"It was-" he stopped. "—difficult, you said?" _I should have been there, by her side._

"Yes, the labor lasted over two days. There was one moment, though, when the two of us were alone in the small hours of the night. Annette had dozed off to sleep in between the pains, but a very strong one roused her out of her sleep. She bent over in agony, and called out for you."

It was as if someone had punched him savagely in his gut. _How she must have suffered_.

"I failed her. Miserably."

"I have no doubt she loved you, Olivier…in spite of everything. And when that pretty little girl was delivered, I saw her hands—the pinky fingers short, the tip below the second joint of the ring finger, just like yours-and the stubborn set of her chin—so like a la Fere!- and I was more than certain she was yours. I grant you these are small things, things only a midwife would notice—but I spent many years delivering babies, and I often made a game out of looking for similarities between children and their parents."

"Was she—healthy?"

Marie's sallow face lit up with the smile that Athos remembered. "Strong set of lungs, that one. You were a quiet one. I remember you as a newborn—so solemn, just looking around the room with those big blue eyes, taking everything in and sizing up your new surroundings. But now that little one—she was determined to make everyone notice her."

"And her name?"

"I was not there for the christening, of course. I left soon after the birth. However, as I was tidying up the room, I saw Annette put the babe to her breast, and she whispered. "Catalina Olivia….Catalina because the love that created you was pure, and Olivia, for your father—he will always be a part of you."

Marie closed her eyes, her strength utterly spent. "Now I can rest. God bless you, Olivier. You have brought me peace in my last hours." She dozed off, her chest barely rising with every breath. Athos was loath to leave her, and sat by the bed holding her hand, his heart aching, yet full of an indescribable longing. **_Catalina Olivia_**_. I tried for so long to find you and your mother, and then I just gave up. I thought it was my punishment to never meet you. Now I am just as sure that it was not by chance that I crossed paths with Marie once more. I __**will **__find you—and I __**will **__make sure that you never want for anything._

* * *

**More angst for Athos! Any thoughts about what might have happened with Annette? As always, I love hearing any comments you have! Moving on to Fontainbleau for sure in the next chapter...the scene at Pinon ended up being longer than I had originally thought...**


	7. Chapter 7

_"You can close your eyes to reality, but not to memories."_

Stanislaw Jerzy Lec

* * *

**Chapter VII**

Athos had tried to resist, but after the visit with Madame Boisvert, the urge to ride to la Fère had been overwhelming. As he rode, the sharp, cold air stung his eyes, A hint of moisture was in the wind, and he feared that a heavy rain was on the way.

The countryside was bare of most of the beauty and charm that it offered in abundance in summer. To be honest, he had always hated the months of February and March. The days, although short, seemed to last forever, and the sky was sullen and grey more often than not. _It was on a day such as this that Annette had first come to la Fère._

* * *

"Olivier! The new falconer is here!" Thomas had barreled into the study, cloak in hand.

"Thank you for taking the time to announce yourself." Athos' voice was stern, but his eyes betrayed his affection for his younger brother. He was seated at the large mahogany desk, going over the household accounts as his father had requested. After two hours, the numbers were starting to blur, and he still had not been able to puzzle out why the figures did not reconcile.

"Oh. Sorry." The younger man appeared abashed. He was now twenty, and full of spirit. Athos was only two years older, but was more introspective, and had a dry sense of humor that often escaped Thomas.

Athos returned his attention to the ledger, and his brother came and perched on the edge of the desk, swatting his elder sibling playfully on the arm. "Come on! Are you not even a little bit curious? Father put six months into the search, and this man comes all the way from Valkenswaard in the Netherlands. That town has produced more master falconers than anywhere in Europe! His guidance may be the last element I need to turn myself and my young falcon into champions."

"There may be hope for the falcon, but for you? I'm not so sure." From long force of habit, Athos ducked to avoid his brother's effort at retaliation. "You go ahead. You can tell me all about this mysterious charmer of birds later."

"Very well." Thomas hopped off the desk in one fluid motion. "Your loss. By the way, I hear Monsieur Master Falconer has a daughter near our age. I call first dibs." As he raced out of the room, Athos shook his head in amusement, then turned back to the columns of numbers. _Life is just one big adventure for you, Thomas. Those of us who are saddled with the expectations of hundreds of years of distinguished forefathers do not have the luxury of pursuing endless diversions._

Despite their different personalities, and despite the fact that Thomas was his father's favorite, Athos loved his brother. They could always read each other's moods with just a glance, and knew better than anyone how to soothe or rile up their sibling.

When Thomas returned two hours later, he had a broad smile on his face. Athos leaned back in his chair with a smirk. "I know that look. So, tell me all about her."

"Who?" his brother asked, appearing confused.

"The falconer's daughter," Athos answered pointedly, raising an eyebrow. "Or are you already so besotted that your head is in the clouds?"

The younger man shifted uncomfortably. "Well, she has quite an attractive figure, but her face…it was unsettling."

"Meaning?"

"Her eyes are two different colors," Thomas muttered, rubbing his a hand over his face as if to erase the memory. "Olivier, it was absolutely freakish! I have never seen anything like it! The right eye is a pale blue, and the left eye is a mossy, bright green. When she looked at me, I had the most bizarre feeling—it was as if two people were watching me. There is **no way** she is a normal girl. She must be possessed or-a witch! I wonder how Father can feel comfortable with her living here."

Athos laughed. "Thomas, please! Are you an educated man, or someone from the Dark Ages who believes that demons and witches are hiding behind every corner? Surely you can see that this girl had no control over how she was born—can't you?"

Thomas raised his chin defensively. "If I were you, I'd withhold judgement until you see her for yourself. It is unnatural, I tell you."

Later that afternoon, Athos had wandered down to the Loire River, as was his habit when he needed to clear his head. The accounting system his father had been using was clearly outdated and prone to error. When Athos had gently suggested that he use a different technique, Sebastian d' Athos had exploded. "I did not ask you to overhaul how I keep accounts! All I required of you was to balance the numbers. If you cannot do it without switching to a system that is fit only for a simpleton, I will turn the accounts over to Thomas!"

Despite his sting of his father's anger, Athos had bit his tongue and bowed, merely saying that he would utilize whatever method his father wished. Their relationship had always been a bit tense, but it seemed to be more strained of late. Athos had always been closer to his mother, as Genevieve d'Athos shared his sensitive, naturally introverted personality. As he walked the banks of the river, his thoughts turned to what the future might hold for him, and he began to feel pensive.

As he rounded a gentle bend, he saw a slight girl gazing out over the water. She was bundled against the cold in a heavy woolen cloak. The material was dark brown, and provided a rich contrast to the amber color of her hair, which blew about her face in the wind. As he approached, she turned and caught sight of him. Reflexively dipping a curtsy, she cast her eyes to the ground.

"You must be the falconer's daughter," Athos said kindly. "Welcome to la Fère. I am Olivier d'Athos. I believe you met my father and brother earlier."

"You assume correctly, your Grace." French was clearly not her first language, but she spoke it well. "I am Luisa Anneka de la Torres. I apologize for having disturbed your walk. I am as yet unfamiliar with the habits of your family. I will leave you in peace."

Athos placed a hand on her arm in a gentle, nonthreatening gesture. "There is no need for you to leave. Please, walk with me a bit and I can tell you about the estate. I am sure it is very different from what you are used in the Netherlands."

Still keeping her eyes downcast, she murmured, "We have moved several times in the past few years. This is just the latest of many homes I have had."

_She is clearly uneasy._ "Well, we are glad your family is here, and hope you will be happy."

"Thank you," she said shyly, glancing at him quickly, then looking away.

As they strolled along, he regaled her with stories of scrapes he and Thomas had gotten into as boys playing along the river, and before long, she was laughing, her reserve having melted away in the face of his kindness.

When she finally mustered up the courage to meet his eyes, he found himself staring at her face. Thomas had been correct about one thing—he had never seen anyone with such an unusual look. However, rather than finding her gaze off-putting, Athos thought that her eyes were striking. The right one was a pale blue, and reminded him of the morning sky in early spring. Her left eye was another matter altogether. The colour was arrestingly beautiful—a jade green that was almost ethereal.

Tears began to fill her eyes as she saw him staring, and she bit her lip. "You don't have to say it—I know I make people uncomfortable. I have since the day my left eye began to turn green—around the time of my first birthday, Mama says. It is part of the reason we have had to move so much. People are not generally very accepting of someone who looks so different. I have been accused of being a witch, a demon, the spawn of the devil, a seer-you name it. It is why my father is so protective of me."

"It is how God created you, and you should not be ashamed—nor should anyone judge or castigate you. All they should care about is what is in your heart."

At a loss for words, this time it was her turn to stare at him. "You have no idea—**no idea**—what is means for me to hear you say that. No one except my parents has ever said something so compassionate."

"Well, then it is their loss. I hope we can be friends, Luisa Anneka."

She smiled. "I usually go by my middle name, Anneka. My mother is Luisa also."

"Anneka…it sounds so—harsh for such a young woman."

Laughing, she answered teasingly, "That is just because your tongue is used to doing the acrobatics demanded of the French language. My mother is Spanish—hence Luisa. My father is Dutch, so my middle name is Anneka. If it is easier, you may call me Annette. When we lived in Bordeaux, that is what I was called."

* * *

As he approached the burnt out shell of the chateau, conflicting emotions warred within Athos' mind. There were so many memories that haunted him. _If only I had some clue about Annette's fate. She gave birth in Dijon, but who knows if she stayed there for any period of time?_ His father had kept a detailed diary, and there might have been some information to have been gained there. However, his study had been in the main wing of the chateau, which had been the one most severely damaged by fire. There had been no hope of salvaging any documents from that area of the house.

Surveying the grounds of the chateau, an idea suddenly came to him. _The armory_. He should have thought of it a long time ago, but his father had died only a week before Thomas, and the entire estate had been in an upheaval. Athos had not had the time nor the inclination to start organizing his father's affairs in that short span of time. When his brother had been murdered and his wife sentenced to death a week later, Olivier d'Athos had left his former life behind, and had never looked back.

The elder Comte had never been a man who shared confidences easily. Even though common sense would have dictated that his heir should have had extensive knowledge of the family's holdings, Sebastian d'Athos closely guarded the specifics of most of his business ventures, insisting that when the time was right, Athos would become privy to the network of investments and holdings that he had carefully nurtured over the years.

The armory had been another mystery. His father had been secretive for many years as to what else besides a substantial cache of weapons was stored in the thick-walled chamber that was in the keep, which comprised the oldest part of the property. The Comte rarely let his sons catch even a glimpse of the room, but had once made an oblique comment about his extensive judicial and business records being well safeguarded. Sebastian had a reputation for dealing mercilessly with enemies or troublesome tenants, and those who did not show him the respect he demanded often paid for it with their lives.

Dismounting in front of the decayed section of the chateau that had once been the great hall, Athos ducked under several fallen beams and carefully made his way into the center courtyard. Only the cobblestones looked familiar. As he gazed over the wide lawn in front of him, an unexpected grief descended upon him. The dead grass, pockmarked with patches of raw earth, had once been the green expanse where he and Thomas had chased each other as boys, usually ending up with a reprimand from their nanny. The long, parallel paths that marked the border of the lawn had been lined by rosebushes that offered up riotous red and white blooms in the summer.

A large stone fountain, now in ruins, had once been the centerpiece of the garden. He suddenly remembered wading through its water late one night with Annette in his arms. Their laughter had spilled over into the night air as the soothing coolness of the ribbons of water had provided a welcome relief against the oppressive July humidity. _We were so young. So young, and so very, very naïve. We really thought love could conquer all. How wrong we were._

Shaking his head to clear the image, he strode over to the ornate grille that graced the entrance to the armory. The iron lock was still secure in the gate. Athos recalled that his Father had always kept a spare key behind a loose stone in the keep that was approximately a foot above his head. Mounting a large rock in front of the wall, he ran his hands along the wall. It took ten minutes, but he finally located the stone. Easing it out of place, he leaned into the space, his fingers finally catching on a key.

The gate swung open on his first attempt, and he cautiously advanced into armory. The keep dated back several hundred years, and arrow slits had been laboriously cut into the walls, allowing for archers to defend against any invading force. Shafts of light cut through the darkness, revealing swirling motes of dust. Cobwebs dotted the dozens of muskets that neatly lined the wall. All nobles were expected to have an adequate weapons cache, as they would be required to make a significant contribution of well-armed men to any army that the King might raise.

A passageway to the family burial vault branched off to the left, and Athos turned his back to that corridor. Gazing at the wall opposite, he saw a small alcove with an iron grille over it that replicated the outside entrance, albeit on a smaller scale. Approaching the metal bars, he noticed that the padlock on it was identical to the one on the outside.

Taking out the key from his doublet, the musketeer opened the small gate, squatting down to peer inside. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness within, he saw a small iron strongbox sitting on a recessed shelf. Leaning into the small space, he pulled it out, finding it lighter than he had imagined. It bore the seal of the Comte de la Fère, with the castle and falcon proudly displayed. Amazingly, the key was in place in the lock. Athos took a deep breath and turned it, hearing a soft click as the lid popped open.

Closing his eyes, he lifted the lid, almost afraid to see what was inside. After a minute or so of slowing his breathing, he opened his eyes, then froze when he saw what was inside.

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Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan had just finished their survey of the grounds at Fontainebleau. "Everything looks secure," commented d'Artagnan. "This may be the easiest mission we have had all year."

Shifting uneasily in his saddle, Aramis found himself scanning the outside of the palace, eyes searching for any weakness in the building that could leave it vulnerable to attack. "We cannot let our guard down at any moment, no matter how peaceful everything looks. After all, we have not only the King to protect, but the Queen and Dauphin as well."

Porthos, checking his pistol one more time, asked absently, "Do you think Milady de Winter will be among the party?

"Let's just say I would not be at all surprised," murmured d'Artagnan, schooling his face into a perfectly neutral expression.

"I would not put it past the King," growled Aramis. "I cannot imagine how the Queen must feel—to see her husband flaunt his mistress so openly must be extremely distressing. Especially after she finally provided him with an heir."

The rumble of carriage wheels was heard, and Porthos muttered, "It seems as if we will have an answer shortly. Looks like the entourage has arrived."

An advance guard of three musketeers, led by Captain Treville, came first. He nodded to his men, then dismounted. Soon after, an elegant white coach, drawn by a team of four white horses, pulled up. The door was opened by one of the footmen, and Anne could be seen inside, trying to soothe the fretful Dauphin, who was crying stormily.

The second carriage, an elegant black vehicle trimmed in gold leaf, halted behind it. The royal seal was on the door, which was opened by a footman dressed handsomely in the King's own livery.

Milady de Winter exited first, clad in a crimson off-the-shoulder gown with gold trim. It provided a striking contrast with her glossy dark hair, and displayed her creamy, voluptuous breasts to maximum effect. She wrinkled her nose at the crying of the Dauphin.

"Cannot the Queen quiet her own child?" she asked icily as Louis stepped down beside her.

"It is of no consequence, my dear Milady," the King, kissing her hand with gallantry. "We will be housed in another wing of the palace entirely. I promise you that neither of us will disturbed by him the rest of the time we are here. I have other plans for you, my dear." He glanced at her neckline with a low laugh, causing her to slip her arm into his.

"I promise to keep you entertained to the best of my abilities, as limited as they are," purred Milady, accompanying him into the palace without even a glance at the three musketeers.

"Athos is not goin' to like this," Porthos growled. "And I can't say as I blame him. Havin' your wife—I mean, ex-wife—paradin' around as the mistress of the King is not exactly pleasant."

"But 'ex' is the key there, my dear Porthos," murmured Aramis, his eyes focused on Anne. "He now has Charlotte, and after the goings-on at the inn, I think we can safely assume that all is well in the marital bed. **Damn** her ladies—where are they?"

Dismounting smoothly, he immediately went to the aid of the Queen, who was struggling to step out of the carriage while holding on to the Dauphin. Two footman stood by, but seemed unsure of what sort of help to offer, and thus did nothing.

"Your Majesty, allow me," Aramis said softly, holding out his arms for the baby and motioning for the footmen to step back. When Anne's eyes met his, he felt as if he could see the depths of her soul, for there was only anguish and fear there to be read.

"The Dauphin is ill," she whispered. "He has done nothing but cry the whole way here, and nothing I do can console him. Aramis, I am afraid."

* * *

**Poor Anne :( -a mistress in the house, a sick child, the love of her life a few feet away, and no LeMay/Constance to help the Dauphin...my heart aches for her...and then there's Athos...**


	8. Chapter 8

_"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed."_

Carl Jung

* * *

**CHAPTER VIII**

Athos' eyes, already fatigued from the dust of the road, began to swim with tears. There were multiple documents in the box, but the parchment on top sent a chill throughout his entire body. A finely detailed quill pen drawing was laid out in front of him, and the style of the artist was unmistakable.

Annette had always been talented, but in this work, Athos saw the love of a mother infused into every precise stroke. The baby girl was depicted lying on a blanket, glancing up at the artist with a happy smile. One chubby fist was in her mouth, while the other was curled around the toes of her right foot. Her chin was definitely that of Athos, but her nose and lips were the image of Annette. She had tiny wisps of hair curling about her ears, and her toes were even and perfect_. Just like her mother._

Before he knew it, he had slammed the box shut and was leaning his cheek against the cool metal, struggling to hold back the sobs that threatened to tear at his throat. The despair and guilt that he had lived with for months after Annette's departure had resurfaced from deep in his soul—and the feelings were just as raw and piercing as they had been years ago_. I cannot do this here, and I cannot do it alone. I do not have the strength. _

Coming to a decision, he lifted the strongbox and carried it out to his horse, carefully locking the gates behind him. He tied the box to the front of his saddle, then mounted, urging the animal in the direction of Moret-sur-Loing.

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It had already been dark for nearly an hour when Charlotte heard the sound of a horse at a full canter being pulled up sharply in front of Denise's house. Her cousin was upstairs reading to Madeleine, and Etiennette had left for the evening to care for a sick friend. Her heart in her throat, Charlotte edged over to the window. Visitors after dark were rare in the country, and almost always meant bad news. Peering cautiously around the muslin curtain, she was shocked to see Athos standing next to his horse, reaching for a small strongbox that was lashed to his saddle.

He was at the door by the time she opened it, the light spilling around her into the yard. Stepping inside, Athos placed the metal box on the sturdy waist-high table by the door, then reached for her. In one smooth motion, he closed and latched the door, then backed her up against it. Bending down, he leaned his forehead against hers, his face lined with fatigue. His hands restlessly combed through her hair, then settled at her waist.

"I need you." His voice cracked with emotion, and she gazed up at him, troubled.

"Come with me." Her touch was tender, full of compassion for the suffering that she saw in his eyes. Taking him by the hand, she led him to her room, then closed the door with a soft click. Her deft fingers first went to his scarf, slowly unwinding it from his neck.

"Do not talk just yet-just let me care for you." Guiding him to the bed, she sat him down, then kissed his forehead. "I'll be right back." She vanished for a moment, then returned with a bottle of wine and some bread and cheese. Pouring him a large goblet of wine, she handed it to him, only to watch him drain it in one go.

She arched an eyebrow at him. "Perhaps you should slow down." Kneeling down, she unbuttoned his doublet and eased it off him, then pulled his boots off.

"Perhaps I need to speed up."

She sat back on her heels, regarding him thoughtfully for a moment, then chose her words with care. "Athos, something has upset you. You say you need me, but I cannot help you through whatever it is if you slip into a drunken haze…unless all you are looking for is a bottle of wine and a soft body to distract you."

"I need more than a distraction," he said hoarsely, running a hand over his weary face, then fixing his eyes on hers. "I need for you to love me, Charlotte. I have made so many mistakes…so many foolish choices in my life. It is hard for me to believe sometimes that I am worthy of love."

"You **are** worthy," she whispered fiercely, then took his hand and gently pushed him back on the bed. Leaning over him, she trailed her fingers along his jaw. "Never forget that." Lowering her mouth to his, she kissed him—a deep, sensual kiss that left him breathless.

Placing a finger on his lips, she murmured, "No talking for now. Just let me show you what unconditional love is all about."

Some time later, as he lay sleeping, pillowed against her breast, she stroked his face, her fingers whisper-soft against his skin. _I promise you….no matter how hard it is for me, I will not let you face whatever this is alone. _

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The palace had already quieted down for the night, but Aramis paced the length of the hallway outside the Queen's quarters, his unease growing as his son continued to wail without ceasing. Louis and Milady had gone directly to the King's suite of rooms, and had left instructions that their dinner was to be delivered there.

The usual entourage of ladies-in-waiting that surrounded the Queen was conspicuously absent. The carriage transporting them had been delayed by a broken axle, but was expected to arrive by the following morning. For now, however, Anne had no familiar face to aid her.

Finally, the musketeer could stand it no more. He knocked softly on the door, then entered in response to Anne's voice. The Queen was walking the floor with the screaming baby in her arms, strain and fear apparent in her features.

She was far past the point of caring about court protocol. When Aramis approached with a gentle "Your Majesty?" her face crumpled, and tears ran down her face. In an instant, she was in his arms.

"He's getting worse!" she choked. "Look at his face—he's flushed with fever!"

"You are exhausted, my love," he murmured. "You have had to carry the weight of this on your shoulders all the way from Paris, but you are no longer alone. 'Bear ye one another's burdens.' That verse from Galatians was one of my mother's favorites. I swear I will stay by your side until our son is well-or until you tire of me."

Aramis' words were like a balm to her soul, and she gave him the slightest shadow of a smile. "I am unlikely to tire of you anytime soon."

"Good." He flashed her his trademark smile. "Because I plan to spend the night."

She hesitated. "Is that…wise?"

"Probably not-but I have no intention of leaving you alone. The King is likely to be occupied with Milady for the rest of the night, so you may have no fear on that score." Taking the baby from her arms, he smiled down at his son, who was now hiccupping between short, weak cries. "Now give this troublesome young lad to me, and let me have a stern word with him."

He settled the infant gently against his chest, wrapping a blanket snugly around him. The baby sighed, then settled against the solid warmth of his father's chest, and promptly fell asleep.

Anne stared at the two of them, unable to believe it. Once again, Aramis had done the impossible. The Dauphin-who could usually never be consoled by anyone save her-had fallen under the spell of his father's charisma. Glancing at her, the musketeer began to quietly laugh. "As much as I would like to believe it, I have no special talent. He is completely worn out. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time."

"You seem to have a talent for that," she answered, kissing her son's hand, his chubby fingers curled around a fold of Aramis' shirt. Looking up at the handsome man holding her son, she bit her lip. "If only…"

"If only…" echoed Aramis wistfully. "But we must be grateful for what we have—a lasting legacy of our love in this little one."

As if he understood, little Louis slept peacefully in his father's arms all night. Aramis dozed intermittently, leaning back against the tall pillows arranged against the headboard of the sumptuously decorated bed. He had insisted that Anne sleep, and she had reluctantly laid down, vowing that it would just be for a few minutes. Eight hours later, she awoke to Aramis leaning over the bed to kiss her goodbye.

"His fever has broken. He was a perfect angel all night…just like his daddy." His rakish grin was as devastating as ever, and she had the almost uncontrollable urge to pull him into the bed next to her. "I know what you're thinking," he whispered, cocking a teasing eyebrow at her. "But I don't give in that easily. I'm not that kind of man." Dropping a kiss on his son's downy forehead, he slipped out the door, and was gone.

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Treville was irritated—no, he was definitely angry. The musketeer commander was never one to hide his emotions in regards to his men, especially negative ones. However, at this particular point in time, he was finding it hard not to completely lose control. "I understand Athos' sense of duty towards this man's family, but tell me again what he said."

"He said he'd meet us here this morning," repeated Porthos patiently for what felt like the twelfth time.

"When?" snapped Treville. "What time?"

"He didn't say," offered d'Artagnan.

"And you three thought that was a **good idea**? Not to pin him down as to a time, or to have a plan? If he is not here to serve as an escort to the Spanish candidate, the King will be livid. He is dead set on the next Master Falconer making the royal mews of France the envy of all of Europe. This whole competition was conceived to impress the four candidates, each of whom is one of the best falconers in the world. A big show has been made of housing these men in splendour and providing them with every possible luxury. Having their own personal bodyguard is part of the package-and right now, Athos is the missing piece of the puzzle."

Just at that moment, a lone man on horseback turned into the broad avenue leading to the grand chateau.

"Thank God," breathed Porthos, just loud enough for Aramis to hear. "It was goin' to be a** very** long ride back to Paris if he hadn't shown up in time."

No sooner had Athos lined up with the rest of them than a carriage bearing the seal of the House of Bourbon rolled to a stop in front of the chateau. A tall, handsome man with dark, shoulder length hair stepped out. He bowed politely, his warm brown eyes friendly. "Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Don Andrés Enriquez, and I am honoured to have been chosen to compete for the title of Grand Falconer. Allow me to introduce my lovely wife."

He turned and held out his hand to a slender woman, who dipped her head gracefully in order to exit the carriage. Holding her skirt in her left hand, she stepped down, stumbling slightly as her foot slipped on a small rock. Springing forward, Athos caught her elbow, steadying her.

"Thank you, monsieur," she murmured softly, glancing up at him for an instant. At that moment, their eyes locked, and Athos' face turned deadly pale. _The right eye a pale_ _blue, the left eye a bright green. _Thelook of shock on his face was mirrored on her own, and she appeared to be close to fainting.

From very far away, Athos heard the voice of the handsome Spaniard. "May I present my wife? This is Doña Luisa Anneka Enriquez. She lived in France some years ago, and has been very much looking forward to the chance to visit your lovely country once again. Look how overwhelmed she is—sweetheart, you must rest."

Her husband put his arm around her protectively, and Athos' hand slipped away, falling numbly to his side. As the ground seemed to loom up at him, he heard one more segment of the conversation. "She has just reached her fourth month. It is our second child…yes, we are very excited! After all, we have been waiting a long time to be blessed again….it has been over six long years since our daughter was born."

* * *

**Just when you thought the cast of characters at Fontainebleau couldn't get any more awkward..and there is more to come...**


	9. Chapter 9

"_Denial exists when three beliefs  
__intersect:_  
_1\. It cannot happen. _  
_2\. It cannot happen to you._  
_3\. It cannot happen to you now." _

Johnnie Dent Jr.

* * *

**CHAPTER IX**

The landscape pitched crazily in front of Athos, and he began to see black spots swirling through the air in front of him. Suddenly, he felt Porthos grasp the back of his doublet, a large fist closing in on the leather in a death grip.

"….Athos, one of my most trusted men." Treville's voice stopped, and Athos vaguely realized that this was his cue. Mustering a cordial smile, the musketeer inclined his head graciously.

"Don Enriquez, it is an honour to serve as your escort. I am at the disposal of both you and your wife."

"Thank you, Monsieur," replied Andrés. "Once I settle my wife into our quarters, I should like to ride into the forest in order to get a feel for the area where the competition will be held. Would that be possible?"

Captain Treville cut in smoothly. "In order to keep the competition fair, the King has decreed that all four candidates will be taken as a group by their musketeer escorts on a path that cuts through the center of the forest. That way, everyone will get an idea of the topography and vegetation, and no one man will have an advantage."

"A wise plan," commented Andrés with a smile. "Your King appears to be a man who values fair play and openness. These are both qualities that are desirable in an employer."

"An astute observation," replied Treville. _This man is no fool._ "The other competitors should be arriving shortly. Now would be an ideal time to allow your wife to rest from the journey." Beckoning to a footman, Treville instructed, "Please show Don Enriquez and his wife to their quarters."

As the couple entered the grand chateau, another carriage swept into the drive. It came to a stop in front of the group, and the door opened to reveal a tall, almost gaunt man. He had an unruly mass of ginger hair, and stared disapprovingly at the scene in front of him.

"I thought as much." He stepped down, a scowl on his face. "Musketeers." His voice dripped with scorn. "So, are we to be policed, or will we be allowed to compete as free men?"

"I assume you are Sir Robert Nanton?" inquired Treville, keeping his tone polite.

"And **you** are?" He looked at the Captain as one would as a rather odious rodent.

"Captain Treville. I command the King's musketeers. Welcome to Fontainebleau. For your safety and comfort, you have been provided with one of my men to escort you. This is Monsieur d'Artagnan."

The youngest musketeer groaned inwardly. _How much longer until I am no longer the new recruit who gets saddled with the worst assignment? _

Sir Robert sneered. "I see that prejudice against the English is still alive in well in good old France. Why am **I** the one who gets the boy who cannot even grow a beard? I suppose I have also been given the room with a leaking ceiling? **And** the most uncomfortable bed? I demand the right to file a protest!"

"There is no mechanism for protests," Treville growled, fixing a steely gaze on the Englishman. "A protest would insinuate that the King of France is less than an honest man…and I am quite sure you do not mean to imply that, Monsieur."

"Of course not," muttered Sir Robert, glowering at d'Artagnan. "But the **first time** this **boy** lets me down-" he jabbed a finger accusingly at Treville, "-I will **not** be held accountable for my actions!" Turning to the youngest musketeer, he snapped, "Now get my luggage—and make it quick! Mind the small trunk—I have my personal items in there, and I will **not** have them lobbed about like a sack of potatoes!"

As Sir Robert stalked into the chateau, d'Artagnan trailing behind with the trunk, Treville sighed. "In every group of falconers, there's always a prima donna. I am going to inspect the mews. The other two men should be here soon. Porthos, as you know, you are paired with Viscount Maarten Van der Hede from the Netherlands, and Aramis, you have—"

The marksman held up his hands. "I know…Prince Gedymin Radziwiłł, from one of the most preeminent falconing families in Poland."

"So you **did **read the dossier," Treville murmured approvingly, patting his man on the shoulder. "One day I may actually be convinced that you are not just a pretty face, Aramis." He smirked, then headed off in the direction of the mews.

Porthos nudged Aramis. "Five livres says d'Artagnan inflicts bodily harm upon Sir Falconer-with-an-Attitude by tomorrow morning."

His friend gave him a reproachful look. "O ye of little faith. He'll last at least until noon tomorrow."

"You think so?" Porthos was taken aback, then narrowed his eyes. "Or are you just playin' mind games with me again? It won't work, you know. Make it ten."

"You're on." Aramis grinned, then turned to Athos, his face sobering. Porthos followed his gaze, then stepped closer to their eldest, catching his eye.

"Remember that time we were waitin' for the Duke and Duchess of Savoy to arrive? And it was blazin' hot, with the sun beatin' down on us?"

Athos appeared lost in thought, but nodded slightly.

"And I said I was thinkin' about faintin'? Just to have somethin' to do?"

"I remember." A trace of a smile appeared on Athos' face.

"That was most definitely **not** what you were thinkin' just now. You looked like you had seen a ghost when Don Enriquez's wife stepped out of that carriage. Who **is **that woman? And how do you know her?"

Athos squinted up at the sky, which had darkened as large, grey clouds had moved in, threatening rain, then turned his gaze back to Porthos. "She was my first love—and I would have married her had my father not intervened." In one smooth motion, he headed for his horse, then mounted it. "I'm going to check the perimeter. I will return by the time we leave for the tour of the forest."

As he rode off, Aramis stared after him. "That was not what I expected him to say."

"Me neither," Porthos answered absently. "All the success of Operation RAMB- the tender feelings, the passion, the Athos-is-a-relaxed-man-almost-without-a-trace-of-moody-angst-destroyed in an instant."

Aramis shook his head in regret, watching Athos ride off into the distance. "Our work in **definitely** cut out for us."

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Two hours later, the musketeers were waiting outside the stables, each with his own horse, as well as one for his assigned falconer.

_God give me strength_. D'Artagnan winced as he spied the skeletal form of Sir Robert approaching him.

Athos' thoughts mirrored those of his protégé when Don Enriquez arrived, greeting him with a smile as he took the reins of his horse

"I apologize for keeping you waiting. My wife and I were busy discussing names for our son. I am convinced it is a boy this time. Our daughter Catalina is the light of my life, but every man wants an heir, no? Have you any children, Monsieur Athos?"

The musketeer swallowed, trying to banish the lump in his throat. "No. I am newly married, though, and my wife and I are hopeful that before long, we will have an addition to the family."

"Congratulations, my friend!" Don Enriquez thumped him on the back, then leaned in conspiratorially. "It makes the cold winter nights go by so much faster with a beautiful woman in your bed, doesn't it?"

"It does indeed." Despite the awkwardness of the conversation, Athos thought of his last night with Charlotte, and was able to produce a grin that was convincing. _Think of the positives. I have a wife who loves me. Annette appears to have a caring husband who adores Catalina. The situation could be much, much worse. I should be thanking God she is not a destitute single mother, or married to an abusive clod._

Viscount Van der Hede, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a booming laugh, strode into the cluster of men and greeted Porthos with a hearty handshake.

"Are you ready to check out the competition?" he asked with a wink. "I am sure most of them pale in comparison to the expert **you **have had the luck to be paired with."

"Confidence does not win competitions, Viscount," called out Prince Gedymin Radziwiłł, the Polish falconer. He nodded his thanks to Aramis as he mounted his horse. "I am sure you remember the thumping I gave you in Antwerp." He smirked at Aramis. "He's a cocky one, that Maarten," he murmured. "But he **is **a worthy opponent…as they all are. Just don't force me to make conversation with Sir Robert. He is incredibly annoying. The moment things go against him, he starts lodging protests."

Aramis laughed quietly. "So I noticed. He started the moment he got here."

Within minutes, they had reached the edge of the forest, and moved into a tighter formation, each musketeer riding abreast of his falconer.

d'Artagnan's eyes combing the trees restlessly, trying to tune out the endless complaining of Sir Robert.

"There are way too many oak trees—I don't like it. They make my falcon anxious. What time of day are we supposed to begin the competition? I insist it not be too early…my falcon does not like to be worked at the crack of dawn…"

The path split into two forks, and Athos, who was in the lead, raised a hand to halt the group. Twisting in his saddle, he called out, "These two paths join together several miles ahead. Aramis and I will take the left path. D'Artagnan, you and Porthos take the right one."

He urged his horse forward, and Don Enriquez, Aramis, and Prince Radziwiłł followed.

"I protest!" screeched Sir Robert. "Why are we being split up? There is **obviously **some hidden agenda here. I insist that I be allowed to ride the left path as well!" Wheeling his horse, he took off behind the others, causing d'Artagnan to curse under his breath, as Porthos and Viscount Van der Hede had already headed off down the right path. After a moment of indecision, the young musketeer took off after his man, following the bobbing of his red hair through the bare trees.

He had just about caught up with his quarry when the road narrowed, and dipped down into a gentle valley. A large stand of ancient oaks lined the path, and tall, rocky cliffs cast a shadow over the valley from the right.

"I don't like this," Athos murmured, glancing up uneasily at the towering cliffs. "I had forgotten how narrow this road becomes."

"It is just a short section," replied Don Enriquez comfortably. "And look how relaxed the horses are." He patted his large black stallion on the neck. "These are magnificent animals," he noted appreciatively. "Your King also appears to value his musketeers enough to give them the best possible mounts. Not every monarch is so thoughtful."

The words were barely out of his mouth before a shot rang out, followed by another.

"Ambush!" shouted Athos. He did not need to look back at Aramis to know what the marksman would do.

Grabbing his companion's reins, Aramis pulled their horses off the road immediately. "Get off and take cover!" he yelled. The Polish falconer responded without hesitation, diving behind the trunk of a large oak and pulling out a pistol from the folds of his doublet.

Athos and Don Enriquez were also off the path within seconds, and had taken cover behind a giant oak. It was only then that Athos noticed the Spaniard was sweating heavily, and was clutching his right shoulder.

"You've been hit!"

"It's nothing," came the curt reply. "Barely a scratch."

A shot careened off the tree in front of them, gouging a deep channel into the bark.

"Let me see," ordered Athos.

"Not now!" hissed Don Enriquez. "First we need to focus on the enemy. Someone clearly knew we were coming this way."

"I unfortunately have to agree with your assessment." Athos gritted his teeth as another shot rang out and a horse cantered by, its saddle empty.

"Damn it! That was Nanton's horse! What **the hell** is he doing? He was meant to be on the other path!" Peering around the edge of the oak, Athos saw Aramis inching around his own tree, his eyes intently focused on the English falconer. The man was lying in the middle of the path, and appeared to be gravely wounded, with blood pooling around his abdomen.

Aramis glanced at Athos, and nodded. From long experience, Athos knew exactly what the marksman was thinking. Reaching for both his pistols, he tensed as Aramis dashed out into the road, flinging himself next to the fallen man. A shot rang out from the cliffs, then another. Athos fired back, hoping to buy Aramis enough time to drag the wounded man to safety. Suddenly, d'Artagnan appeared next to him, out of breath and dishevelled.

"That man is an idiot!" he muttered. "I swear, if Aramis is wounded trying to save his sorry-"

Athos, half-listening, had sighted a flicker of movement at the top of the cliff. Taking advantage of a lull in the gunfire, Aramis had scrambled to his feet and began to drag Sir Robert to safety. As Athos focused on the area between two rocks where he had seen the fleeting motion, the barrel of a musket appeared. A moment later, a shot rang out, and d'Artagnan gasped as a scream split the air.

* * *

**Special thanks to Issai for help with Polish names, and also for assistance in navigating the Polish keyboard!**

**Some action kicking in now! If you have a moment, please leave a comment to let me know your thoughts! :) Another person will make an unexpected appearance soon...**


	10. Chapter 10

_"You win battles by knowing the enemy's timing, and using a timing which the enemy does not expect."_

Miyamoto Musashi

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**CHAPTER X**

A lone figure fell from the heights of the cliff, hitting the ground with a heavy thud. In the interim, Aramis had pulled Sir Robert off the path and behind the tree where he had taken cover earlier. The Englishman was unconscious, and his color was an ashen grey. Prince Gedymin lost no time in unbuttoning the man's doublet, his fingers probing his abdomen.

He looked up at Aramis and shook his head. "He has already lost too much blood. Feel how tense the abdomen is."

Within seconds, the musketeer knew that the Prince was correct. As he held his fingers over the center of Sir Robert's belly, he felt the pulsation from the abdominal aorta weaken, then cease entirely. Sitting back on his heels, he took off his hat and rubbed his face, suddenly feeling incredibly fatigued. _How in the world are we going to explain this to the King? And what has happened to Porthos and Viscount Van der Hede?_ The two men were obviously now alone on the other path.

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Porthos and the Viscount reached the junction where the two paths joined back together, and reined in their horses.

"Where are they?" asked the baffled falconer. "You said that the other path was slightly shorter, so I thought they would be waiting for us.…all six of them, since Sir Robert tore off after the others, with d'Artagnan in hot pursuit."

"So did I." A sense of uneasiness descended upon Porthos as a light rain began to fall. "I don't like this at all."

"Then I suggest we go investigate." The Dutchman raised an eyebrow at his escort. "Are you game?"

Porthos grinned, sensing a kindred spirit. "You have to ask?" As they cantered down the path, he called out, "By any chance, do you play cards?"

The Viscount laughed, his eyes sparkling. "My friend, you have no idea. How much money do you want to lose?"

After a hard ride of five minutes, they came around a bend to find Aramis and d'Artagnan filling in a freshly dug grave. Porthos felt an icy fist of fear close around his heart. He reined his horse in, then dismounted instantly. "Where is Athos?" he asked urgently, his heart in his throat.

Aramis gestured towards a large oak tree. "Over there, tending to Don Enriquez—he took a nasty shot in the shoulder."

"So—Sir Robert is—" the Dutch nobleman was unable to finish the sentence.

"Dead." D'Artagnan's voice was tired and resigned. "I would wish that fate on no man, no matter how annoying. God rest his soul."

"How did this happen?" Porthos was still trying to understand exactly what had occurred. "An ambush?"

Aramis nodded. "Someone obviously knew we were coming this way. Prince Radziwiłł killed the sniper—or at least one of them. He appears to be quite a shot." As the Polish nobleman approached them, Aramis offered his hand. "I owe you my life, my friend."

"It was nothing," the man responded modestly. "I have no doubt you would have done the same for me. You showed great bravery in risking your own life to try to save Sir Robert."

"I only wish I could have done more."

"His fate was already sealed when he took that shot in the abdomen," came the sober answer. "As we say in Poland, 'If the goat hadn't jumped, she wouldn't have broken her leg.' He took a foolish chance by heading off on his own. But that was Sir Robert…he was loath to take direction from anyone." Shaking his head, he glanced towards the body at the foot of the cliff. "Perhaps we should go search the dead man?"

"As we say in France, 'Great minds think alike,' " responded Aramis. "Let's go."

Within several minutes, the two men had reached the corpse. The skull was crushed, and the man appeared to have been killed on impact. He was clearly not a peasant or a common bandit, as his clothes were of good quality. He had a finely crafted leather weapons belt, which still held two pistols and a main gauche, as well as another sheathed dagger.

Prince Gedymin inspected the pistols closely, then looked up at Aramis. "These are of good quality. This was no poor bandit."

Aramis drew out the main gauche, which was also a well-crafted piece. Laying it to the side, he then pulled out the dagger in the other sheath. The knife was about eight inches long, and had an intricate design traced on the blade, which Aramis recognized immediately. It was a black rose, with a pair of angel wings affixed to it.

"That is an unusual design," commented the Polish falconer. "Perhaps a sign of some group? Or a secret society?"

"I have no idea," mused Aramis. "But we saw a similar dagger yesterday. It had been used to execute a man from one of the nearby villages. His body was left hanging in the forest."

"A gruesome public display," observed the prince. "Obviously meant to send a message to the local populace."

"The question is, what was **this** man's motivation to attack us?" Aramis stood up, scanning the landscape. "Not banditry…he could not possibly hope to kill us all—and if he had accomplices, they melted away rather quickly when we returned fire. A personal grudge? It seems unlikely that Sir Robert had had a chance yet to alienate someone other than us—and in any case, murder would be a rather drastic response to an annoying personality. Plus, Don Enriquez was shot first, so more than one falconer was injured. That makes the third possibility more likely—that this was done to disrupt the competition and embarrass the Musketeers—and the King by extension. So this group may have a broader agenda than we first thought."

The Prince glanced at the sky, which had begun to threaten rain. "Perhaps we should be on our way back to Fontainebleau. I think all of us have seen enough of the forest for today."

While Aramis and his partner were examining the body of the sniper, Athos had eased Don Enriquez's doublet off. The man had gritted his teeth in pain, but remained silent. His shirt had been torn apart by the impact of the bullet, which had easily penetrated his woollen jacket. Athos gently grasped the edges of the shirt and tore a larger hole, using the material to stanch the flow of blood.

"Can you see the ball?" asked the Spaniard, his voice hoarse.

"I think so," responded Athos, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Take it out—now..please."

"I am not sure that would be wise. The bleeding could worsen once it is removed, and this is a less than controlled situation. We do not have adequate supplies. Aramis' medical kit is back at Fontainebleau, as he saw no reason to bring it along for a short ride into the woods."

"You are probably right," Andres conceded, but his eyes were desperate. "But promise me that as soon as we get back someone will tend to me… I cannot risk having **anything** take me out of this competition. The position of Grand Falconer would give my wife and daughter security….and my son who is yet to be born would have a bright future. **Please**, give me your word that you will help me."

"I give you my word." Athos' soft response seemed to soothe the falconer, and the man relaxed, then winced as pain flared up in his shoulder again. "Let me get you some brandy," Athos murmured. Retracing his steps to his horse, he rummaged through his saddlebags, then returned with a small flask. Supporting Andres, he lifted his shoulders slightly off the ground, and brought the flask to his lips. The man drank deeply, then closed his eyes as Athos lowered him back to the ground. "Thank you. I feel very lucky to have gotten you as a guide, Athos. You are clearly a good man."

Athos squeezed his hand in acknowledgment. "And you are an important one, for you have a wife and daughter who love you and are anxiously waiting for you. It is my pleasure to be of service. Now rest, and conserve your strength."

As he got up and placed the flask back in his saddlebag, Athos wondered at the odd forces of destiny had had led him to be reunited with Annette in such a way._ I must talk to her, for there are so many questions I have…especially about our daughter...and if Andres is out of the competition, I may never see them again. This may be my only chance._

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By the time they rode back in to Fontainebleau, Athos' arms ached from supporting Andres in front of him in the saddle. The man was solid muscle, and had lapsed into unconsciousness, making it impossible for him to aid Athos in any way. Treville was waiting for them outside the chateau, and even as they were still a distance away, Athos could see the frown on his commander's face. The Captain had immediately noted they were down a man, and that another falconer was injured.

As they halted in front of him, Treville caught the reins of Athos' horse. "What happened?" he hissed. "Is Don Enriquez injured? And where is Sir Robert?"

Athos swung down from the horse, keeping one hand firmly on the injured falconer's arm.

"We were ambushed. Don Enriquez has been shot in the shoulder, and has lost quite a bit of blood. Sir Robert is dead. We buried him in the forest."

"God in heaven." Treville took his hat off and rubbed his face wearily. 'How the hell am I going to explain this to the King? The Musketeers were directly tasked with security, and we have failed—to the effect of one citizen of a foreign nation being dead, and another one being gravely wounded. This has all the makings of an international incident, Athos!"

"You think I don't know that?" Athos' body was tense with anger. "I have thought of nothing else the whole way back! This man was my responsibility, and now I must go and inform his pregnant wife that he has been shot—on my watch!"

As they were talking, Porthos brushed past him. "Let me carry him. Where do I take him? Aramis has already gone to get his medical kit."

Treville thought for a moment. "There is a small surgery in the east wing that is kept for the King's physician when he is in residence. Take him there. Athos, come with me. We need to make a full report to the King. D'Artagnan can inform Dona Luisa what has happened."

"No!" Athos' voice was resolute. "That is **my** responsibility, and mine alone!"

"Are you refusing a direct order?" The Captain's eyes were steely, and he was starting to lose patience. "I believe d'Artagnan is more than capable of sensitively informing Dona Luisa of her husband's injury. Although it may be hard for you to believe, your protégé can vanish from your sight for more than five minutes and be perfectly fine."

"Captain, I am **begging** you…" The look of pleading in Athos' face took Treville by surprise. _He really **is** taking this personally._

"I will meet you at the King's chambers in 5 minutes. Any longer than that, and we risk him hearing the news from someone else-and I will **not** allow the story to first be heard from anyone other than us."

"Understood." Athos was off in a flash, seizing d'Artagnan by the arm. "Come with me!"

A minute later, they were at the Spanish falconer's suite of rooms. Athos knocked gently on the door, then opened it when Annette bid him enter. "Give me a moment alone with her to break the news," he murmured. "Then I will need you to guide her to the surgery while I go with Treville to meet the King."

D'Artagnan nodded, and Athos entered the suite, closing the door behind him.

Annette was sitting in a chair by the fire, which had already been lit due to the inclement weather. "Olivier!" She stood up, dropping the needlework that had been in her lap. "Now is not-we need to talk, but-" Seeing the stricken look in his eyes, she suddenly stopped.

"Where is Andres?" she whispered.

"Annette." He closed the distance between them and took her hands. "We were ambushed, and he was shot." Her eyes filled with tears, and he hastily added. "But he is alive. I personally cared for him. Andres is brave and strong. We will **not** let him die, Annette, I **promise** you. I failed you—" his voice broke, and a look of indescribable pain came into his eyes, "-once before, and I failed our daughter. You were left alone and vulnerable, and I will **not** allow that to happen again."

"There were forces beyond our control, Olivier," she choked. "You have **no idea** of all that went on at the time. I honestly thought I would die of a broken heart during the last months of my pregnancy. I just thank God that the marriage I was forced into ended up being the best thing that could have happened to me. I only hope that you and your wife have found such happiness."

"About that-" Athos shifted uncomfortably. "The woman you may remember as my wife is here-but we are no longer married. It is a long story, but suffice to say that the marriage was invalid. She is now living as the mistress to the King. I pray she does not recognize you. Luckily, the one time Anne saw you, it was dark, and she was mainly focused on me."

"But surely-" Annette hesitated. "—she must know about my eyes...someone must have told her!"

"There is more than one woman in the world with two different color eyes," Athos said soothingly. "If we both play our parts well, she will have no reason to suspect anything."

"But—what about Catalina? She is staying in the village with Andres' sister. What if your ex-wife were to see her? Olivier, she looks more and more like you every day! What are you doing here anyway, serving as a musketeer? Why are you not at la Fére?"

"This is not the time or the place," Athos said gently. "There is too much to explain. Your husband needs you, and I have been called to make a report to the King. Much happened after you left, Annette, and I needed a new identity. Life as a Musketeer suites me, and gives me a purpose. I also married again a month ago, and finally have a measure of peace."

"So it appears that fate has not been entirely cruel to us," murmured Annette.

"Not at all." Athos' voice was husky with emotion. "**Please** tell me I can see our daughter at some point, Annette….just for a moment. I **need** to see her."

"Oh, Olivier…." Her fingers touched his cheek hesitantly at first, but once the initial contact had been made, she put both hands to his face, caressing him with all the tenderness of a long-lost lover. "How could I refuse you? If it had not been for our love for each other, I would never have had the beautiful little girl that I adore with all my heart. **Of course** you shall see her-and if you do not fall in love at first sight, I will be very, very surprised."

"Thank you," he whispered. "That is all I needed to hear." Taking one of her hands in his, he said, "Now come. Let d'Artagnan take you to Andres, and I will go to meet the King. We will have a chance to talk later."

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Athos made it just on time to the King's chambers, and found Treville pacing outside the door.

"The King is receiving another visitor," muttered Treville.

"Who?"

"No idea." Treville shook his head. "If someone else has gotten the news to him first…."

The door suddenly swung open, and a footman beckoned to Treville. "Captain, the King has requested that you and Monsieur Athos enter."

"But—what about his visitor?" asked Athos, bewildered. "Doesn't he want to dismiss him?"

"No, the King was quite clear that he wanted His Grace to stay."

Athos glanced at Treville, who shrugged. "As His Majesty wishes."

They advanced into the room, and saw the King sitting in a high backed chair in front of the fire, engaged in animated conversation with his guest. The chair of the visitor had its back to the Musketeers, and as they approached, Athos thought there was something vaguely familiar in the voice he heard give a quick reply to the King.

The footman's voice rang out as the musketeers were announced. "Captain Treville and Monsieur Athos, here to be presented to His Majesty King Louis XIII of France."

Louis' expression was carefully neutral. One manicured hand dangled a snifter of brandy, while the other toyed with a document in his lap.

"I have just received some** disturbing** news, Captain. Some news that I not only find** shocking**, but **very** disappointing. Please allow my guest to enlighten you. Comte?"

A lean blond man, impeccably dressed in a flowing blue velvet cape and embroidered doublet, stood up and faced the musketeers.

Athos felt his stomach lurch as he looked into the pale blue eyes in front of him. _I had hoped to never look upon this face again_. As if his thoughts were being read, the man sneered. "It has been a long time, Athos. What a pleasure to see you again."

"Comte de Rochefort," murmured Athos. "I can honestly say you are the last person I expected to see here."

"Really?" Rochefort feigned astonishment. "Are you quite sure? It seems to me that this chateau is **full** of surprises."

* * *

**The plot thickens...thank you for all the lovely reviews! They are much, much appreciated!**


	11. Chapter 11

"Anyone who falls in love is searching for the missing pieces of themselves. So anyone who's in love gets sad when they think of their lover. It's like stepping back inside a room you have fond memories of, one you haven't seen in a long time."

Haruki Murakami

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**CHAPTER XI**

The interview with the King was quite possibly the most painful experience Athos had ever had during his years as a musketeer. Rochefort had clearly gained the upper hand by obtaining access to the King first, and had fed Louis a tale of musketeer incompetence. As the Comte had explained it, he had happened to be riding along the cliffs, reacquainting himself with the country after his long prison term in Spain. Although he had not been anticipating trouble, he had been alert for any sign of it. Thus, when he had seen the sniper firing at the helpless band of musketeers, Rochefort had been quick to dispatch him with his pistol. There had been an accomplice, and he had given chase, killing the man with a single blow from his sword.

"Where is the body?" inquired Athos, skeptical of Rochefort's story of single-handed heroics, especially as he knew very well that the shot that killed the sniper had not come from the Comte. However, he sensed that Louis had already accepted the story, and knew it would be useless to attempt to contradict it.

Rochefort ignored him, and turned to the King, his face the picture of innocence. "Your Majesty, it is **incredibly** lucky that I happened to come along when I did. It really must be considered a miracle that none of your esteemed guests were killed."

"Actually—" Captain Treville cleared his throat. "It appears that a stray bullet mortally wounded Sir Robert. He died moments after."

The King's face grew white with anger. "**It appears**? Am I to understand that your supposedly professional, highly-trained musketeers allowed one of these master falconers—**personally** invited by me—to be **murdered within hours** of arriving at Fontainebleau? How in the world am I supposed to explain this to the English Ambassador at court? You have put me in an **impossible** situation, Treville!"

"Your Majesty, I…."

Louis closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing in deeply in order to control his temper. "**Please** tell me no one else was hurt. I **cannot** take much more incompetence!"

"All the rest of the party is safe—with the exception of Don Enriquez, who was shot in the shoulder."

"Good God!" exclaimed the King, his eyes flashing with anger. "Where is he now? Bleeding to death on the road?!"

"Your Majesty need not fear," Athos answered in a calm, measured voice. "He is being well cared for by Aramis, who is our regiment's unofficial medic."

"Well, I advise you to make** very sure** that he does not die!" Louis replied coldly, his words laced with fury. "I have no desire to have to summon the Spanish ambassador as well!"

"Yes, Your Majesty." Treville and Athos bowed as the King dismissed them, then hastily retreated from the room.

"Well, that was excruciating," observed Treville, his expression grim. "Perhaps we had best check on Aramis and his patient."

When they arrived at the surgery, Aramis had just finished cleaning the Spaniard's wound. Annette sat at the head of the table her husband was lying on, speaking softly to him as she wiped the sweat from his brow.

"How is he?" murmured Athos to his comrade, his eyes trained on Annette.

"I managed to dig out the ball," muttered Aramis. "But I don't like the look of his shoulder. There is already quite a bit of inflammation, and I am afraid he could end up with some nerve damage if the swelling doesn't subside. If only we had some of the salve that Charlotte used on your shoulder after you were shot at the palace! It was amazing how quickly you healed—and with no real lasting damage to muscle or nerve."

Athos caught Aramis' arm. "When the apothecary burned, Charlotte lost almost all of her stock of medications. But I have no doubt she committed Martin's formula to memory. If I were to bring her to Fontainebleau, I am confident that she could make a batch from the ingredients here in the surgery." He glanced at the shelves, which were lined with neatly labelled bottles filled with herbs. "It seemed to have been well stocked by the royal physician."

"That certainly seems like a good idea," responded the medic, giving his friend an approving glance. He then sobered a bit, lowering his voice. "We could all benefit from the presence of the lovely Charlotte, but it may make things more—interesting, shall we say? With Milady here and-" his gaze drifted to Annette as his voice trailed off.

"Suppose you let me worry about that?" murmured Athos. He then approached the injured falconer, who appeared to be hovering on the edge of unconsciousness. "Andres, how are you, my friend?"

The Spaniard's dark brown eyes, dulled with pain, turned slowly to focus on Athos. "Better, now that my wife is here." He glanced up at Annette and gave her a weak smile. "She has the magical ability to make me forget some of the pain, if only for a moment or two."

"My wife, Charlotte, has some skill as an apothecary. She has a special salve that she used to great success to heal me when I had a similar wound in my shoulder. In fact-" he smiled as he thought of the tender care Charlotte had given him, "—it is how we met. She is currently staying with her cousin at a town not far from here. With your permission, I would like to bring her here and have her treat you."

"That would be wonderful!" Annette exclaimed, extending a grateful smile to Athos.

"I welcome any assistance she can give me," echoed Andres, his strength clearly waning in the face of exhaustion. "Travel safely, Athos. I look forward to meeting your lovely wife when you return." His eyes closed, and his breathing became regular as he drifted off to sleep.

"Be careful," Annette said softly. "And thank you."

As he prepared to leave, Athos put on his hat and turned back to her, resolve clear on his face. "Be secure in the knowledge that I will do whatever it takes to restore your husband to you in good health." With that, he was gone.

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It seemed to Charlotte as if a somewhat normal life with Athos was very far in the future.

_I feel as if my marriage has been a series of one night stands_, she thought morosely, slapping the bread she was kneading onto the table. She immediately felt remorse when she saw Denise bent over her sewing. Her cousin was not much older than her, but had already been a widow for several years. Charlotte remembered when Denise had been in her teens, carefree and full of laughter._ I so hope she finds happiness again. She deserves to be loved._

Shaping the bread into two loaves, she slid it into the waiting oven, then wiped her hands on her apron. Madeleine peered out the window in the kitchen, her little face anxiously pressed against the glass. "It's getting a bit dark. Do you think it is likely to rain this afternoon? If so, I should put the goats inside."

"I'm not sure," answered Charlotte. "What does the sky look like from the front of the house?"

"Let me check!" Madeleine flew to the door and flung it open. She disappeared from sight, then was heard to squeal in delight.

Charlotte laughed good-naturedly. "I wonder what discovery she has made now.."

"I hope to God it is not another abandoned nest of baby birds that need to be nursed back to health," said Denise fervently.

"Not quite," came the dry reply.

Charlotte's face was suffused with joy in an instant. "Athos!" She darted into his arms, causing him to laugh in amusement. "So absence **does** make the heart grow fonder?" he teased, kissing her lingeringly.

"For me, at least," she responded, sighing dramatically. "Perhaps I am now as familiar to you as a piece of old furniture, but **I** still feel a thrill when I hear your voice."

"Does anything else besides my voice give you a thrill?" he inquired, his low voice pitched for her ears alone.

She flushed. "I think you already know the answer to that, but in case you have forgotten..." Casting a glance at her bedroom, she gave him a seductive smile.

"I **would** like a moment of privacy, but perhaps not for that reason." The intimacy vanished from his voice, and she immediately perceived that there was a more serious reason for his visit.

"Go on, you two," Denise waved an affectionate hand at them as Charlotte led him to her room. "Newlyweds have no reason to tarry in the presence of others."

"Ah, but before I forget, Porthos sends his regards," called Athos over his shoulder, smiling with satisfaction when he saw Denise blush in response to his words. An instant later, the door to the room shut, and Charlotte raised an eyebrow at him.

"As much as I would like to believe that a desperate longing for me brought you back, I sense that there is another reason that you have returned."

He drew her into his arms, his magnetic blue eyes resting on her face as his hands toyed with her laces. "And as much as I would like to have my way with you right now, duty calls. I unfortunately have more need of your talents in the apothecary than in the bedroom at the moment." He hesitated, then plunged ahead. "The falconers arrived this morning, and all was well until we were ambushed while escorting them through the forest."

"Someone was hurt." It was a statement, rather than a question. Charlotte had read him correctly.

He nodded. "The English falconer was killed, and the Spanish candidate was shot in the shoulder. Aramis managed to remove the ball, but he is concerned by the degree of inflammation and tissue damage that has already occurred."

"You need the salve." She took in a deep breath, her body tensing with frustration. "Athos, the last of it was lost in the fire at the apothecary. I have not even half of the ingredients on hand here. It took my father and I months—years!-to build up our stock. So much could have been done with the herbs we had collected at the shop, but there are all gone to ashes!"

"I should tell you that there is a large store of herbs in the physician's surgery at Fontainebleau. I have every confidence that you would be able to produce the salve with what is on hand." The warmth in his eyes caused a wave of happiness to flow over Charlotte, but his next words checked her joy. "However, there are several things I need you to be aware of before you agree to go."

"What things?" she asked, wary of the circumspect nature of his comment. "Or should I ask whom do I need to be aware of?"

A smile flitted across his face. "Nothing gets past you, my love. Let us sit down." He steered her to the bed, then settled her back against the pillows. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he gathered his thoughts for a moment, then plunged ahead, his hands fidgeting with the hilt of his rapier.

"Sometimes I hate the fact that my past is so complicated. I never asked for it to be, and I wish I could spare you the pain that inevitably spills over onto you. Milady is at Fontainebleau—" he looked up to gauge Charlotte's reaction. She held her breath, but allowed him to continue "—and she is now the King's mistress."

Charlotte reached for one of his hands, then closed her eyes as she brought his fingers to her lips. "As much as I hate to hear that, I know it cannot be easy for you either. How I despise that woman!" Her voice filled with venom. "She made your life a living hell, and now she dares to thumb her nose at you while she warms the King's bed!"

"I care not who she sleeps with at this point," muttered Athos, sliding next to her and rolling her on top of him. "I have all I want right here." His mouth found hers, and they were soon lost in a passionate embrace. Athos finally forced himself to pull away, fighting the rising tide of the physical need that threatened to overtake him. "Much as I would like it to be, this is not the time..."

Charlotte, flushed and bright-eyed, hastily agreed. "The injured man…he is waiting…."

"Yes." Athos took in a deep breath, then combed his hands through her hair. "That is the difficult part."

Charlotte gazed at him quizzically. "What could be harder than telling me that I will be spending the next few days with your ex-wife, who is now mistress to the King?"

"Telling you that you will also be spending the next few days with my first love? Who just happens to be the mother of my long-lost daughter, as well as the wife of the injured falconer?"

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**Will Athos' latest revelation give Charlotte pause? And what exactly is Rochefort's game? The scene shifts back to Fontainebleau next time...**


	12. Chapter 12

_"The best thing one can do when it's raining is to let it rain."_

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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**CHAPTER XII**

As Charlotte remained quiet, Athos felt increasingly uneasy. Finally unable to stand it, he spoke up, trying to sound matter-of-fact. "You must have questions."

"You could say that," she replied, her voice eerily calm. "Here's my first one. Did you know all this when you came last night?"

"I knew about Annette and Milady, yes. But not about the falconer, because that had not yet happened."

"You know **very well **I was not referring to the falconer." She pushed away from him and sat up, staring at her hands, which she had folded tightly in her lap. "Athos, what was the **one thing** I asked of you that night at the inn?" Her eyes searched his face for a response. When he hesitated for an instant, she continued. "I told you I was willing to respect the boundaries that you felt necessary to erect, but **only** if you promised not to betray my trust in you."

"And I haven't!" Athos' body was tense as he leaned against the headboard. "I had no intention of taking you to Fontainebleau without apprising you of the situation."

"That's not the point. When there was no reason for me to go to Fontainebleau, you were obviously content to keep me in the dark. Which leads me to wonder-exactly why **did** you come here last night? You told me you needed me—evidently for one thing only, because none of this was mentioned! What did you find in that box that upset you? Something did. Athos, just tell me! Is it that your feelings for Annette have resurfaced? Or is there a secret son you have with Milady who will be dropping by for tea? **What else is there **that you are not telling me?!"

She was trembling with emotion, and the betrayed look in her eyes cut Athos to the quick.

"I have told you all that I can," he said softly.

"And I tell you that I **do not** deserve this." Her voice was detached, and she shook her head slowly as her eyes filled with tears. "I have never been anything but completely honest with you, and it is beyond me how you can wholeheartedly embrace the intimacy of my body, but refuse to invite me into your soul! Making love to you is-" her voice broke, "—beautiful, sensual, passionate-like nothing I've ever experienced…but it is **meaningless** if we are strangers to each other's innermost thoughts and fears."

"I understand your pain—"

"**No! No, you don't, Athos! **I do want you to help me understand something else, though. I am curious…in your mind, what made me any different from a prostitute last night? The lust, the physical yearning…..it was definitely there—but the deep, emotional connection? It could not have been. Because if it had been truly present, you would never have used me and then fallen asleep without breathing a word of any of this!"

Sliding off the bed, she seized a bag and packed several sets of clothes, her fury unabated. Wrenching her cloak off a hook, she made for the door, only to have Athos step in front of her and gently, but firmly, take hold of her arms.

"You have every reason to be angry, and I accept everything you say, except for one thing. I could never—would never—treat you like a prostitute—like an object for my own selfish gratification. Please understand that-and remember that I am not a man who can easily share his thoughts. Ask Porthos-Aramis—d'Artagnan. I would give my life for any one of them, but I daresay they often find me unreadable." The tension in her body relaxed ever so slightly, and she allowed him to fold her into his arms, although kept her eyes carefully averted from his, leaning her head against his chest.

Stroking her hair, he murmured, "I learned long ago not to trust anyone with my dreams and hopes. Any time I let down my guard, I was hurt-by Thomas, my father, Milady—or I caused someone to be hurt. Annette is just one example. I have spent years carefully building a fortress around my emotions, Charlotte. That habit cannot be undone in a week—or a month. After Milady, I spent five long years without the comfort of a woman. There were many times I was tempted—times the physical urge was almost overwhelming. But I swore I would never bed a woman again unless I was truly and deeply in love—with her mind, her heart, her way of living life—not just taken with her body."

Charlotte felt completely numb. "And did you find this woman? Or did you just grow tired of waiting?"

"I found her. Or perhaps I should say, she found me—alone, delirious with fever, broken in body and soul-and she is slowly making me a better man. But I fear it is a much greater task than she ever dreamed."

_And so it is, _thought Charlotte wearily.

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The ride back to Fontainebleau had been uncomfortably quiet. Charlotte, having no wish to be alone with Athos, had persuaded Denise to accompany them. It had not taken too much energy on her part, for Denise had caught up on her seamstress work, and Etiennette was taking Madeleine to visit a cousin in a nearby town. One of the neighbors' young sons had readily agreed to care for the animals, and they were soon on the road.

Although she remained outwardly calm, Denise was bubbling with excitement. She had rarely travelled beyond her village over the past five years, and the thought of seeing the fabled chateau of Fontainebleau was almost too good to be true. In addition, there was the added attraction of knowing that Porthos would be there—and that alone was enough to put a smile on the face of the seamstress.

By the time they arrived, it was nearly dark. They dismounted, handing their horses over to the stable boys. Charlotte had been to the Louvre the night of the New Year's Eve ball, so she had already experienced a palace. For Denise, however, the chateau was like a fairy tale castle. Nothing she had seen previously could even hope to compare.

As they entered through the side entrance that led to the surgery, Denise could not help but stare at the lavish furnishings. A painting of a lakeside scene caught her eye, and as she rounded a corner, she failed to look ahead, and ran into the solid bulk of Porthos.

"Denise!" he exclaimed, a broad smile spreading across his face. "I had no idea you would be coming back with Charlotte!"

"Neither did I," she confessed shyly.

"Well, let me be the first to welcome you." He bowed deeply, then tucked her arm into his. "Allow me to show you the grounds." Winking at Athos, he murmured, "Don't worry. I'm off duty. Aramis and d'Artagnan are with Andres. They have moved him to the bedroom next to the surgery."

Athos and Charlotte were left standing in the hall as the shadows began to darken. "Would you mind showing me the surgery?" Charlotte asked. "I would like to start compounding the salve."

"Certainly." Athos hesitated. "Would you like to meet Annette—and Andres—now, or later?"

"I honestly don't think I am up for that just yet," Charlotte replied, her expression suddenly guarded. "The journey was tiring, and I want to get to work before it is too late."

"Very well." Taking her hand, he guided her down the corridor to the surgery, and opened the door.

"There is no need for you to stay," Charlotte murmured, her fingers restlessly working the edge of his doublet. "I will be preoccupied for some time."

He caught her hand. "Promise me you will stay with me tonight." His arresting blue eyes had a pleading look that she had never seen before, and she found herself instinctively winding her arms around his waist. When he touched his lips to hers ever so slightly, then drew back, she had to fight the urge to return the kiss in a much more passionate manner. "I would—like that," she whispered. "But please—no more surprises."

"None at all?" His voice was hoarse with longing for her. "That sounds terribly boring."

"I suppose I could make an exception for certain—activities. Now, off with you…I need to get to work!" Marching him to the door, she gave him a wistful smile as she shut the door. "Until later."

Treville had decided that it would be best to keep two musketeers on guard duty at night. Aramis and d'Artagnan had drawn the first shift, from six o' clock until midnight. They first skirted the perimeter of the grounds on horseback, ensuring that the gates were secure. Satisfied that all was quiet, they returned their horses to the stables.

"Perhaps we should make a pass through the gardens," Aramis muttered, his eyes scanning the endless rows of hedges that made up the ornamental maze that stretched out over a large swath of land behind the chateau.

"Do you really think someone would be foolish enough to hide in there?" d'Artagnan scoffed. "That maze is supposedly the most elaborate in France. There are all manner of dead ends in there."

"And that's exactly what would make it perfect," answered Aramis, staring out into the darkness. Suddenly, he caught d'Artagnan's arm. "Did you see that?" he hissed. "Someone's in the maze—and he's carrying a torch."

"Aramis, I think you're becoming a bit paranoid."

"I swear to you, I saw a torch! Look, just there!"

D'Artagnan followed Aramis' line of sight, and sucked in his breath. There was indeed a flicker of flame seen for just an instant.

"You saw it, didn't you?" Aramis challenged him.

The younger man nodded, warily reaching for his sword. "Wait a minute—there's another one!" From the opposite end of the maze, another torch could be seen intermittently weaving through the hedges.

"I don't like this at all." Aramis drew out one of his pistols.

"Neither do I. Not a fan of mazes," muttered d'Artagnan. "They give me that closed in feeling—just like the forest. I'll take the east side, you head for the west. If I don't come out by daylight, I'm probably dead."

"Now **that's** an optimistic thought," responded his comrade dryly, melting into the darkness. Aramis had the uncanny ability to move almost soundlessly when he wanted to, and within seconds, d'Artagnan had no indication that he had ever been anything but alone in the cold night air. Sighing, he entered the maze, his senses alert and his heart pounding.

Several minutes later, Aramis thought he had seen a flicker of light to his left, but it almost instantly disappeared. The wind picked up, stray leaves rustling and skittering along the ground. The musketeer's eyes, now fully adjusted to the dark, were drawn to a pinpoint of light through the thick hedge ahead of him. Quietly moving forward, he was so focused that he almost failed to hear the faintest of footsteps behind him.

His ears picking up the crunch of gravel at the last second, he whirled, only to narrowly miss being his left arm being sliced open by the blade of a sword. Reflexively unsheathing his own sword, he was soon locked in a fierce battle with his opponent, who appeared to be six inches taller and nearly fifty pounds heavier. What he lacked in size, however, Aramis made up for with his agility and speed. Gracefully parrying with his main gauche, he was able to throw his opponent off balance by feinting to the left, then attacking to the right.

The clash of metal against metal easily carried through the still night air, and Aramis could vaguely hear d'Artagnan shouting his name. He dared not let himself become distracted enough to try to answer, giving all his attention to the man in front of him. His enemy stumbled, and Aramis pressed him, searching for an opportunity to neutralize the threat. Just as he saw such a chance and readied to deliver the killing thrust, the musketeer heard the unmistakable report of a pistol from behind him. A burning pain blossomed through the left side of his abdomen, and he staggered, clutching the torn leather of his doublet.

As his vision began to blur, a blunt object smashed against the back of his head, and he fell to the ground, unconscious and bleeding heavily. Rain began to fall, first a light patter, and then a heavy, drenching downpour. D'Artagnan, now completely lost in the winding labyrinth of the maze, called out for Aramis, his voice becoming increasingly more desperate as he heard no reply.

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**Thank you so much for all the comments and favorites! They are much appreciated, and definitely brighten my day...**

**Anne makes a reappearance next chapter...hang on, DD131!**


	13. Chapter 13

_"Love is divine only and difficult always. If you think it is easy you are a fool. If you think it is natural you are blind. It is a learned application without reason or motive except that it is God."_

_Toni Morrison_

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**CHAPTER XIII**

"ARAMIS!" D'Artagnan's voice was nearly spent, and he realized it would be foolish to continue to scream, as the rain was now so heavy that it muffled the sound of anything except its relentless assault on the earth. He was already soaking wet, and beginning to shiver from the cold. However, the sound of a pistol being discharged still echoed in his mind, and he continued to race through the maze, having no idea if he was going in circles or actually covering new ground.

Making a ninety degree turn, he slipped in the mud and fell heavily. As he got to his knees with effort, he saw a form sprawled facedown across the path ahead of him. "Aramis!" The younger musketeer was at his side in an instant, shaking his comrade in an attempt to get a response. "Where are you hurt? Talk to me!"

Putting a hand to his friend's cheek, he flinched as he felt the how cold his skin was. For an instant, the world started to spin around the Gascon as he remembered a similar scene months ago in front of an inn. That time, he had watched his father die in his arms during a heavy rainstorm_. Please God, do not let Aramis suffer a similar fate._ d'Artagnan could not discern any movement of his friend's chest, and began to doubt whether Aramis still was breathing. However, he then felt the faintest rise of the wounded man's chest. Slipping his fingers to Aramis' neck, he found a faint pulse—as well as the familiar stickiness of recently spilled blood.

"Damn," he muttered, his fingers edging along the back of the skull and coming into contact with a large smear of blood over the left ear. There was already quite a bit of swelling in the same area, but it appeared to be from a blow to the head, not a gun shot.

As he went to turn Aramis over, his hand caught in a hole in the thick leather. Examining it more closely, his heart sank as he realized that a bullet has ripped through the material—and into his friend. There was no way of telling how much blood Aramis had already lost, but d'Artagnan knew it was probably a significant amount.

Gathering the marksman into his arms, he was just about to stand up when he felt the cold touch of metal against his head.

"Move an inch, and you die." The voice was low, but the threat was unmistakable.

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Athos had insisted that Annette leave her husband for at least a short period of time in order to get something to eat. While she was gone, he had sat by the Spaniard's side, trying to ensure that he stayed warm and comfortable. The falconer slept fitfully, muttering in his sleep. He tossed from side to side, only settling down when his wife returned and kissed his forehead, whispering gently to him in Spanish.

"I should go and meet with Treville…he's expecting me." Athos stood up, feeling remorseful at having to leave her alone. "I promise I'll be back later. Charlotte is already working on the salve." He walked into the small sitting room that adjoined the bedroom and picked up his cloak. Annette followed, standing just inside the doorway and watching him intently.

"She sounds like a good woman, your wife," she said quietly. "Are you happy, Olivier?"

He smiled at her, and her heart stopped for an instant. He suddenly looked very young, almost boyish. "Yes, I am…although I think Charlotte finds my behavior trying at times."

"Trying? You?" Annette, puzzled, repeated his words. "I don't see you as the bullying type. That was your father."

"Yes, he did excel in that particular area," observed Athos, his voice full of bitterness.

Sighing, he looked at her with sadness in his eyes. "Annette, the years have changed me. I am not the same person you knew. There is no doubt I was always an introvert, but I withdrew even more into myself after you left. It was incredibly ironic, now that I think about it. Although I kept to myself, I wanted more than anything to have what I had had with you. I wanted it so badly that I mistook flirtation and flattery for love and commitment, and I paid dearly for it."

"Ever since Anne betrayed me, I have kept even my closest friends at arm's length. It is difficult for me to remember what it is like to be open and trusting in a relationship. One minute, I think I am doing so well…but then Charlotte reminds me that what I think is a huge success in communication or trust still falls far short of the normal patterns of interaction between a husband and wife. I just pray that she will not grow tired of my inadequacies."

"I doubt it. Not if she is the right woman for you." She looked down at her simple gold wedding band, ornamented with an emerald and a sapphire, side by side. Twisting her ring, she smiled, and held it up for him to see. "Look at the ring Andres chose for me."

"Emerald and sapphire," he said softly. "Just like your eyes."

"He is a good man, Olivier." Her voice was raw with emotion. "He has never made me feel anything but beautiful…despite the fact that my unusual looks have caused countless problems for us. If I had a livre for every time I have been accused of being a witch, I would be a very wealthy woman. But more importantly, he has been the most loving of fathers to Catalina."

Athos glanced through the doorway at the Spaniard, and saw that he was still in a deep sleep. "Does he…"

"Know she is not his child?" She finished the question, holding his eyes with her own as they filled with tears. "No, he doesn't. God help me, but I did not have the strength to tell him the truth. Our marriage occurred just a few days after I had missed my cycle-just a few days after I had told you I was with child. But your father was thoughtful enough-" sarcasm laced her words as she lowered her voice to a whisper "—to give me a drug to spike Andres' wine with the night of our wedding. He was determined that my husband never have any inkling that I was not a virgin." Her voice broke. "Athos, he told me he would kill my own father if I did not go along with his plan. And I have no doubt he would have."

She took in a deep, shuddering breath. "It makes me sick every time I think of how I have deceived my husband. He has never been anything but honest and faithful during our years together. If he knew what I really am…" She shook her head, tears now freely spilling down her cheeks.

"Annette—please don't say that! You did what you had to do to protect your child—our child. Your father put you—put us—in an **impossible** situation. I really believed him when he told me he would give me permission to marry you. I was so incredibly naïve. I know you had a much, much more difficult time than I did, and I still feel incredibly guilty."

She looked at him, shocked. "How can you think that** you **had it easier? I had the joy of being with our daughter every second of the day—of loving her and having her love me. I had a spouse that I grew to adore very quickly. You had neither…and you were still burdened with your father's expectations. I prayed for you every night, Olivier—I still do, in fact. I prayed every night for years that you would find happiness, and it fills me with joy to hear you tell me that you **are** happy."

"And I have worried for so many years about what happened to you and our child. I envisioned you being abused—or left alone to beg on the street. Not knowing killed me. I thank God that I finally know that you and our daughter are safe and happy."

Smiling through her tears, she took his hand. "Have you ever thought that perhaps—" she hesitated, "—that perhaps God put us together and—gave us each other in order to set into motion a chain of events that would make us into the people we are today? I like to believe there is a reason for everything, and certainly Catalina is reason enough. But perhaps there was another part to the plan."

"Perhaps there was." As he echoed her thoughts, he realized again how fortunate he was to have first experienced love with her...and how lucky he was to have a second chance at happiness with Charlotte.

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"Put him down!" The man holding the pistol was becoming impatient.

"I can't just leave him here!" protested d'Artagnan. "He'll die!"

"He** is** dying," snarled another man, circling into the musketeer's field of vision. He held a large sword at the ready, and had a black scarf pulled up over his nose and mouth. The brim of his hat shielded most of his face. "We don't want **him**. You, though…**you** hold great promise as a hostage. Now get up!"

The young man hesitated, clearly reluctant to leave Aramis wounded and unconscious.

"How about I put a bullet in his head right now?" muttered the man holding the pistol. "Then he'll be good and dead, and you won't have to worry."

"Save your ammunition," replied d'Artagnan, grinding his teeth in frustration. He laid Aramis down as gently as he could, then got up, holding his hands above his head.

"Move!" The man with the sword motioned him forward, and soon all was still in the depths of the maze. As the rain finally slowed to a fine mist, the only sound that could be heard was the harsh rasping of Aramis' breathing.

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Treville was pacing the hall when Athos arrived at the study that the musketeer commander was using as an office. "Something is wrong," he muttered. "Aramis and d'Artagnan were to report to me after their initial survey of the grounds. It has been over an hour since they went on duty, and there is no sign of them. I have sent several men into the maze, as everywhere else has already been searched."

Athos threw his cloak around his shoulders. "I agree with you, Captain. Something is not right. I'm going to see what I can find out."

"I'm going with you." Treville's face was grim.

As they walked along the path leading from the chateau to the maze, each carrying a torch, a shout suddenly went up from the high rows of hedges. "It's Treville's man! Get him—quickly!"

Athos and the Captain broke into a run, and just as they reached the entrance to the maze, a burly musketeer came out, gingerly carrying Aramis in his arms.

When seen at first glance in the shadowy light cast by the torches, the marksman appeared dead. His skin was a dull grey, and his lips were nearly blue. Athos touched his hand, and shuddered. He had felt corpses that had been warmer.

"Inside! Quickly!" Treville ordered. When they reached the chateau, Athos threw open the heavy oaken door, and almost ran into the Queen.

"Your Majesty!" His usual cool detachment was absent, and Anne stared at him. "Athos, is everything alright?"

At that moment, the musketeer carrying Aramis entered the hall, and Anne gasped. Her face turned a ghostly white, and Athos gripped her arm. She leaned against him, whispering under her breath in Spanish. Athos sensed that she was praying, and knew that her instinct was to go to the father of her child immediately. Although she appeared reasonably calm, he could tell from the stricken look in her eyes that she was deeply shaken. He squeezed her hand in what he hoped was a comforting, yet appropriate, manner, and murmured, "Aramis is young and strong, and he has the will to live…as well as a love to live for."

The Queen took in a deep breath. Only with great effort was she able to hold back her tears as the markman's body was rushed by her. Aramis' left hand was smeared with blood mixed with mud, and his skin was so pale as to be translucent. "He looks as if—as if-"

"He is **not** dead—and he will not die. But he needs to be stabilized. I must go with him, but I will inform you of his condition at the earliest opportunity." Athos bowed, then hastily followed the procession to the surgery.

Charlotte had just finished scooping the second batch of salve into a jar when the door to the surgery flew open, banging against the wall. She turned with a start, only to blanch when she saw a limp Aramis, his leather torn by a bullet hole.

In an instant, she had cleared the last of her materials off the examination table. Even as Aramis was being placed on the table, Charlotte's hand was smoothing back the hair that was pasted against his forehead, and she was speaking to him in her soft, gentle voice. "Aramis, if you were looking for attention, my love, all you had to do was ask. This is definitely the wrong way to go about it. But now that you are here, I will have to give you the full treatment. Nothing less but the best will do for you."

Glancing up at Athos, she inquired, "The royal physician?"

"Ill himself, in Paris."

"Well then," she murmured. "We will just have to do our best."

As the marksman was rapidly stripped of his doublet and shirt, Charlotte eyed the growing crowd. "Captain," she said in an undertone to Treville. "This is not the time for an audience. Everyone out except for you and Athos, please. And send someone to find Porthos."

As the commander cleared the room, Charlotte laid one hand on Aramis' chest, while the fingers of her other hand felt for the pulse at his wrist. His breathing was irregular and shallow, and blood was still trickling at a slow rate from the gunshot wound in his abdomen. She began to probe his side, trying to see if there was an exit wound.

A shadow suddenly fell across her field of vision, and she glanced up with a frown. Her expression softened immediately when she saw Porthos, his face torn with anguish. "Please tell me he's not dying," he whispered.

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**I will try to keep the next update not too far away, but real life is keeping me busy the next few days. Thank you so much for the kind comments...they definitely keep me smiling! (To the guest reviewer...many thanks! Glad you are enjoying!)**


	14. Chapter 14

_"When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a tender hand."_

Henri Nouwen

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**CHAPTER XIV**

"Not while I have anything to say about it," replied Charlotte calmly. "Porthos, it would be so helpful if you could talk to Aramis. My father always believed that patients can hear us, even when they seem unaware. Comforting, soothing words could very well make a difference, especially given that Aramis is likely going to be in significant pain when he awakes. If you can calm him now, it will help him immensely. Can you do that?" What she did not add was that it would soothe Porthos as well. The big man hated feeling useless, especially when his friends were injured or in trouble.

Porthos nodded, his expression still troubled. "Yeah-I can do that."

"Keep it light though…tease him, tell him funny stories…no tears allowed. Got it?" She held his gaze until he gave her a hint of a smile. "Yeah. Besides, he can't talk back right now, can he? I may just enjoy puttin' my own special spin on some of these stories."

With his smile widening into a grin, Porthos pulled up a chair and sat next to his injured friend. Before too long, his dark, curly head was bent next to Aramis'. While she could not hear his words, Charlotte relaxed at the encouraging tone in Porthos' voice. When the big man suddenly chuckled, she glanced up, only to have a lump form in her throat as she saw him gently run a hand through the marksman's hair. She found it remarkable that a giant like Porthos had strong, but surprisingly graceful, hands. Even more remarkable was the fact that a man who had grown up in the desperate poverty of the Court of Miracles had one of the most tender, pure hearts that she had ever known.

_Aramis is in good hands_, she thought. _At least as far as his emotional health is concerned._ As if he could read her thoughts, Athos moved next to her and gave her a slight nudge with his shoulder.

"Would you like a hand? I can claim to have some skill assisting in the operating theatre."

Charlotte gave him a rueful look. "The experience of having to operate on close friends without having any degree of training is becoming rather tedious."

"But you are so **very** attractive when you take charge." Athos' voice moved into the lower register that was guaranteed to make her want him to undress her-very, very slowly-while continuing to talk about any topic—cabbages, horses, wine-she really didn't care what, as long as he didn't stop.

"And **you** are being incredibly distracting right now," she murmured. "Now be a good boy and get me some light—and save the bedroom voice for later, please."

Efficiently whisking two large candles to her side, he inquired softly, "Is that a promise?"

"Athos, now is not the time!" She glanced up at him in amusement, only to see his blue eyes display a curious mix of flirtation and worry. _He is terrified for Aramis, but is trying to keep me relaxed by lightening the mood. How I love this man_.

"Captain? Have you any brandy to hand?"

"No, but there is a bottle in my study. I'll go get it." Treville slipped out the door.

"Exit wound—here!" Charlotte's voice was triumphant.

"That's good, right?" Athos asked anxiously.

"Well, it means we don't have to worry about digging out a ball…but we do have to worry about infection. That bullet tore through his leather and shirt, and may have taken dirt along with it. The first step is to cleanse the entrance and exit points of the bullet with alcohol, and then I will apply Martin's salve. It is derived from the one he learned from the famous surgeon Ambrose Paré. The main ingredients are turpentine, oil of roses, and egg whites. Martin added garlic, cinnamon, calendula, and cloves. Thankfully the King's surgeon has easy access to all these ingredients."

When the Captain returned with the brandy, Charlotte poured it over the wound. Aramis' back arched just a bit in response. "I'm sorry, I know it stings," she murmured, squeezing his hand. "I wish I didn't have to hurt you, but needs must in this case—I can't let a nasty infection brew in that wound."

* * *

_The pain was excruciating. Aramis wondered what he had done to deserve having a fiery liquid poured all over his body. He tried to open his eyes to see who was assaulting him, but was disturbed to find that his brain could not make his eyelids obey. He wanted to scream, to tell whoever was doing it to stop, but was unable to speak. No one was coming to his aid. He was truly alone. Surrendering to the darkness, he realized in panic that it would be impossible for him to escape the pain physically. He would have to try to elude it by focusing his mind on something pleasant, be it a happy memory, or the sweetest of dreams._

_All of a sudden, the darkness fell away, and he found himself lying on a blanket under a giant yew tree. It was a warm June day, and the scent of honeysuckle was in the air. Someone was caressing his face, running gentle fingers through his thick, dark hair. Looking up, he saw himself gazing at the face of his Queen. _

_She smiled, her face lighting up with pleasure. "Did you sleep well?"_

_"__I—I suppose so," he replied, somewhat embarrassed that he had fallen asleep._

_Anne laughed softly. "You needed the rest, my love. There is nothing wrong with listening to your body."_

_"__Really?" He cocked an eyebrow at her. "So if my body is talking to me again, should I pay it heed?"_

_"__I suppose it all depends on the message you are getting," she replied lightly._

_"__I may need some help interpreting it." He caught her arm and pulled her down so she was lying next to him. "How good are you with body language?" _

_"__Mmm…I would say I am somewhat fluent," she replied with a soft laugh as he began to nuzzle the soft, white skin of her neck. Within moments, he had awakened her passion, and she found herself pressing her body against him, her hands languidly exploring the hard, smooth muscles of his back. Somehow, he had become shirtless. Anne pulled back, and gazed at him, her beautiful azure eyes hazy with desire. The warm rays of the sun illuminated his sculpted, lean abdomen, and she sighed, then bent to kiss his chest. _

_As her soft lips slowly traced across the skin near his navel, he suddenly became acutely aware that they would be clearly visible to anyone who would happen to pass by._

_"__We should—go," he rasped, pulling away from her with difficulty. "If I am going to make love to you, I have no desire to do so in plain sight. Come." Taking her by the hand, he led her into the forest. They walked along the sun-dappled path, soft pine needles under their bare feet. Aramis spied a secluded glade off to the side, and drew Anne into it. They were surrounded by a ring of large oaks, which provided both shade and privacy. He leaned against the trunk of a sturdy tree, then wrapped his arms around her slender body, drawing her against him. His mouth found hers, and they were soon lost to their surroundings, aware only of each other. _

_Minutes later, the wind shifted, and thunder crashed above the trees. The heavens opened, sending a torrential rain down upon them. Aramis tried to pull Anne even closer to him, hoping to shelter her from the worse of the downpour. However, he inexplicably was now alone. He called for her, his voice becoming increasingly desperate. A flash of movement came through the undergrowth, and he was sure he had seen Athos' distinctive leather. Pushing forward, his eyes searched the darkening forest, scanning the terrain for any sign of Anne or his friends._

_Suddenly, he saw several forms milling about a gigantic yew tree to his left. Raucous shouts went up from the group, and a chill ran down Aramis' spine as he saw a stout rope thrown over one of the sturdy branches of the tree. There was a struggle, and whoops went up as the group beat and kicked a man who was now on the ground. The man offered less and less resistance, and finally went limp. In an instant, the rope had been secured around his feet, and he was hoisted into the air, hanging upside down. Aramis recognized the man as Athos, and he froze, paralyzed with fear._

_A man who seemed to be the leader stepped forward, brandishing a knife that was identical to the one they had found below Jacques Boisvert's corpse. "We find you, the Comte de la Fère, guilty of the crime of abandoning your people. Your father's negligence allowed crime to gain a foothold in Pinon and the forest of Fontainebleau. Lawlessness has only spread since you left us to fend for ourselves. As punishment, you will now pay the ultimate price." As the dagger slashed toward Athos' neck, Aramis tried to shout, but no sound came out of his mouth. He instinctively reached for his pistol, only to find himself unarmed. In a last ditch effort to save his friend, he launched his body forward, but fell flat on his face, a burning, searing pain penetrating his side. I'm dying too, he thought vaguely, then knew nothing more._

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Charlotte had finished the painstaking process of dressing Aramis' wound. She could feel sweat running down her back, and her arms were stiff. Straightening up, she caught Athos' eye. "Well done," he said softly, kissing the top of her head as he handed her a cloth drenched in cool water. "You are a true healer—of bodies, as well as hearts."

She smiled at him. "My work is not yet done. I still have Andres to treat. Would you—" she hesitated.

"Introduce you to Annette?" He was amazed at how easily the words came out of his mouth. "Of course." Glancing at Porthos, he asked quietly, "Will you be okay without us?"

The big man sat in a chair next to the treatment table. His elbows were propped against his thighs, and his head was buried in his hands. Rubbing his face wearily, he replied huskily, "Of course. I'm not leavin' him."

"After I get back, you should really go rest for a bit," Athos suggested, his voice kind.

Porthos raised his head defiantly. "I'm not givin' up on my brother!"

"I'm not suggesting that," answered the older musketeer. "But for you to be able to provide Aramis with any meaningful support, you must get some sleep. You look exhausted."

"If I sleep, it'll be right here," Porthos muttered, pulling a blanket from a side table and draping it around his shoulders.

"It is up to you, my friend. But please, take care of yourself. Aramis is counting on you."

Athos took Charlotte's arm, and led her out into the hall. "Where is Denise?" he muttered.

"Great minds think alike," Charlotte whispered. "I was just thinking the same thing. Porthos needs comfort as badly as Aramis does. Her room is just down the hall. Give me a moment to fetch her."

Moments later, she returned with her cousin. Denise's dark hair was loose around her shoulders, flowing in soft waves down her back. A dark green shawl was around her shoulders. When Charlotte opened the door to the surgery, a look of compassion came over Denise's face. She slipped inside, and went to Porthos, kneeling next to him and taking his hand. She spoke to him in a low voice, and Athos saw with relief that his friend's body began to relax ever so slightly. As the door swung shut, Charlotte glimpsed Porthos reach for Denise. He drew her into his lap, and she slipped her arms around his neck, knowing instinctively that he needed to be held and comforted.

"Thank God she is here," breathed Charlotte.

"I was just thinking the same thing about you," Athos murmured, maneuvering her against the wall. "I could not bear to lose you." His blue eyes were mesmerizing, and in an instant he had closed the space between them, the weight of his body moulding against her in a way that ignited a burning need deep within her. As his lips met hers, her hands found his waist and slipped under his shirt. The urge to feel his bare skin under her fingers was irresistible, and as she sighed with pleasure, he deepened the kiss.

"I **did** wonder why you have made such a spectacular mess of the security arrangements,' came a sneering voice from behind them. "But it is all quite clear now. Is this fetching little dish your mistress, or merely the entertainment you secured for the evening? If it is the latter, I suggest you step aside and let a **real** man satisfy her needs."

* * *

**Sorry for the delay in updating, but real life has been rather demanding over the past week. Thank you for your reviews...they honestly were a bright light during some very long days! Hopefully the next chapter will be up this weekend...**


	15. Chapter 15

_"One faces the future with one's past."_

Pearl S. Buck

* * *

**CHAPTER XV**

Charlotte felt Athos stiffen, and he turned, being careful to place his body between Rochefort and his wife.

"I would advise you to keep your mind out of the gutter when you refer to this woman. This is my **wife**, Rochefort."

"Ah. It would seem congratulations are in order. You've done well for yourself, Athos. Aren't you going to introduce me?" Rochefort smirked at the musketeer, then turned his gaze to Charlotte, his eyes traveling slowly over her curves, lingering appreciatively at her neckline. Athos fought the temptation to put his blade to the Comte's throat at that very instant. However, he knew that such a reckless move would only delight Rochefort, as he would recognize the depth of emotion behind the action.

Everything about the impeccably dressed man in front of him irritated Athos, and had since they had first met at the age of thirteen. Rochefort was the heir to a large estate on the banks of the Loire, not far from la Fère. Even as a youth, Rochefort had been conniving, and the intervening years had served only to sharpen his talent for deception, as well as his thirst for power.

Even now, his very presence sent Athos into an internal rage that he had to struggle with in order to channel it into the icy self-control that his brothers often marvelled at.

His blue eyes, darkening into the color of a mountain lake before a summer storm, challenged Rochefort, who continued to openly admire Charlotte. "So unspoiled…so fresh and innocent. I must insist you introduce me."

In an instant, Athos had grasped the folds of the Comte's blue velvet cloak, slamming him against the wall so hard that his blond head ricocheted off the stones, snapping his neck forward.

"And** I** must insist that you keep as far away from her…and myself...as humanly possible-at least within the confines of Fontainebleau. I don't know what your game is, Rochefort, but I intend to find out. You have been warned." He suddenly let go of the cloak, his gloved hands recoiling as if he had touched an animal that had died of rabies.

Taking Charlotte by the arm, he led her to the bedroom where Andrés lay. Rochefort set off in the other direction, blithely humming a tune.

Truth be told, Charlotte was glad to have had the distraction of Rochefort, as odious as the man's appearance had been. She had not had even a moment to dread meeting Annette. _What am I thinking? _ She scolded herself. _I am acting like a jealous schoolgirl. This was a woman that Athos once loved…and had a child with…but she is now married to a man whom she seems to care for. I have nothing to fear._

But as her eyes adjusted to the darkness and focused on the bed, her heart froze for an instant. She did not even have to look at Athos to sense that he felt compassion for the woman she saw lying curled up next to her injured husband. Yet when she glanced up at him, she saw with dismay that there was something more there…a wistfulness…a protective instinct—the look she had seen him give her when she had been stricken with hypothermia.

_You are not the only person in the world he is allowed to care about_. The stern voice in her head tried to keep her thoughts from going into endless circles of worry and panic, but the questions leapt to her mind in a relentless assault. _Would he have still married me if she had been free? How will I ever compete with her in his heart if I do not give him a child? What does he think of when he beds me? Is he comparing me to Annette? Is he comparing me to Milady?_

"Charlotte," she heard Athos murmur. "Are you ready?" She nodded automatically. _I'll never be ready, but now is as good a time as any_. Moving quietly over to the side of the bed, he placed a gentle hand on Annette's arm. She sat up with a start, blinking sleepily, then smiled at Athos. Her eyes were so trusting—so full of memories and dreams-that Charlotte felt as if she could not breathe.

Annette was smaller than she had imagined…fine-boned and delicate. Her brown hair, the colour of ripened hazelnuts, had worked its way out of the plait she had put it in earlier, and curled in tiny wisps around her face. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and there were dark smudges under lower lashes. However, it was her large, brilliant eyes that were her most arresting feature. The left eye was a jade green, with just a hint of pale yellow around the pupil. Its mate was a striking pale blue that reminded Charlotte of glacial lakes she had seen in the French Alps once many years ago. The effect was almost mystical. She could see why people had accused Annette of being a seer…or worse.

"Annette, this is my wife, Charlotte," she dimly heard Athos say. "Charlotte….this is Dona Luisa Enriquez, whom I knew many years ago as Annette….although I suppose I should properly address you as Luisa," he added softly.

"You were never one for ceremony, Olivier." There was an intimacy in the woman's voice that unsettled Charlotte. It was not intimacy of a sexual or suggestive nature, but the sort that comes from hours spent together walking through the forest, or sitting outside counting the stars at night. And then there was the name—_Olivier_. Charlotte had known for some time it was Athos' first name, but she also knew that he preferred to be addressed by his surname. In fact, she had never heard anyone actually call him Olivier—until now.

_Stop it! This is your mind playing games. This is a wife who fears for the life of her gravely injured husband. She is **not** your competition._ As if in a dream, she heard herself speak, and was surprised to hear how calm she sounded.

"I am pleased to meet you. Athos has spoken fondly of you. I am very sorry for your husband's injury, and I hope that I may be able to offer him some aid. May I examine him?"

"Of course," Annette replied hastily, scrambling off the bed. She stood to the side, hugging her arms to her chest against the cold air. Athos noted that the temperature in the room had fallen, and went to the hearth, grateful for a chance to collect his thoughts while stoking the fire.

Charlotte turned back the bedclothes, exposing Andrés to the waist. Her eyes were drawn to the bandage wound around his shoulder. It was carefully arranged in the pattern that Aramis used when dressing wounds, and she felt immense relief in knowing that the initial care for the injury had been nothing but the best.

"Andrés, I'm Charlotte," she murmured, noticing the sheen of sweat on his face that indicated that his temperature was likely rising. "Athos brought me to tend to your wound. I will be as gentle as possible, but you must let me know if I am hurting you. You may feel some pressure, but if there is any pain, tell me at once."

There was no response from the falconer, who lay still as she unwrapped the bandage with a steady hand. She was about to ask Athos to bring her a candle when he suddenly appeared at her side with a lit taper, illuminating the field before she could even make the request.

"You are proving to be a husband of many talents. You make a very able assistant." She slanted her eyes up at him with a quick smile, then returned to her work, concentrating on exposing the torn flesh.

"But I still have much to learn," he replied, his voice low and full of regret.

Suddenly feeling as if the conversation had veered onto an entirely different plain, she swallowed. "It would be very helpful if you could get me some warm water, and a clean bandage."

"There is some water already warmed, here in the kettle by the fire." Annette sprang to the hearth, busying herself with pouring the water into a bowl.

Athos caught Charlotte's eye, and guessed with a pang of remorse that her thoughts were likely occupied with many questions about his relationship with Annette.

"_Vous et nul autre." _The look he gave her was full of conflicting emotions—love, regret, pride, and sorrow. "You and no other—now, and in the years to come. I meant it." His gaze held hers until she nodded slightly, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spring to her eyes.

When Charlotte had finished dressing the wound, having applied a thick coat of the salve under the bandage, she and Athos took their leave. At the threshold, she hesitated for a moment, then turned back and hugged Annette. "I will do everything in my power to make him well," she whispered.

"Thank you." Annette clung to her for several seconds before releasing her with a grateful look. "For everything."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Once he had seen Charlotte to their chamber, Athos went to report to the Queen. He was itching to search for d'Artagnan, and had expected to be combing the grounds by this time. When he had learned that Treville had asked the one of the other musketeers to head up the group tasked with the search, Athos had protested heatedly.

"You are needed here!" the Captain had replied, his voice firm. "With Rochefort ready to cause mischief at every turn and Aramis injured, I cannot spare you and Porthos. The men I am sending are more than able to track d'Artagnan." Athos had recognized the look on Treville's face, and knew that his commander would allow no argument.

Knocking on the door of the Queen's chamber, he thought carefully of what words he would use to describe Aramis' condition. He did not want to unduly upset Anne, but he also did not want to give her a report that was far more optimistic than the reality. He was ushered in by a chambermaid, who conducted him to the Queen's sitting room, then disappeared, closing the door behind her.

Anne was standing by the Dauphin's crib, rocking him in her arms. He was cooing softly, and a little hand stretched up from the blanket to grasp a lock of her hair. "You are such a flirt, my son." A tear rolled down her cheek as she tried to smile. "So like your father." Her voice caught as Athos approached her.

"Your Majesty, he lives."

"But for how long?" The anguish in Anne's voice was unmistakable. "I must see him, Athos. Now. He deserves to see his son one last time."

"There is a good chance he will recover," Athos replied, his tone soothing. "You cannot take such a risk. It is not wise."

"Does Aramis not risk his life for **me** every day when he puts on his pauldron?" she retorted, her eyes suddenly blazing. "He is the father of the future King, and he **will** see his son."

"Your Majesty, I beg you to be discreet." His gaze was level, but respectful. "If you insist, I will take you. But you **must** obey my instructions without question. Not only for your sake, but for Aramis—and for your son."

She wiped another tear from her face. "Of course. I did not mean to be imperious, or rash, but Athos-"

"I know how you feel about Aramis," he murmured, "and I know how he feels about you. I just want to keep you both safe."

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The Comte de Rochefort was seated in a comfortable chair in front of a large fire. A silver goblet of wine was in his hand, full to the brim. One of the King's beloved spaniels lay curled up at his feet, snoozing peacefully. Firelight glanced off the precious stones in the three large rings that ornamented the nobleman's hand. Rochefort should have been content. However, his thoughts were anything but settled.

Staring moodily at the flames in front of him, he cursed that fates that had dictated that the Comte de la Fère should have crossed his path again, now as a King's musketeer. He had expected that the path to the King's inner circle would not be easy, but the presence of Athos now made the task exponentially more difficult. Rochefort knew that the musketeer would be analysing his every move and word, waiting for a chance to discredit him.

_It is just as well that I have a trick or two up my own sleeve_. Rochefort had been careful to cultivate an ally before he had even contemplated launching his plan-and the person he had selected had already proven to be invaluable.

A swish of silk was heard from behind him, and a dark head bent to kiss his cheek. Milady deWinter's jasmine scent gave her away even before the soft, exquisite touch of her lips.

"Milady." Rochefort rolled her name off his tongue, his pulse quickening as he thought of the delightful diversion she had proved to be in the fifteen minutes they had stolen together that afternoon.

"Comte de Rochefort." He so loved the way she pronounced his own name. Somehow she made it sound manlier- more powerful. Or perhaps it was just the alluring look she always gave him when she said it. She sank onto a cushioned seat next to him, and stretched her spine luxuriously, noting with satistfaction how his eyes eagerly followed every movement of her body. "What news do you have for me?"

"We have a hostage-a very valuable one."

* * *

**The plot thickens! Thank you again for all the lovely comments, and the favorites are so appreciated! I thought it might be interesting to cast Milady and Rochefort as allies, as they were portrayed in Dumas' book. They do make quite a pair..**


	16. Chapter 16

_"One's life has value so long as one attributes value to the life of others, by means of love, friendship, indignation, and compassion."_

Simone de Beauvoir

* * *

CHAPTER XVI

Athos slipped into the surgery, and smiled when he saw a sleeping Porthos stretched out on the floor, his head cradled in Denise's lap. She was singing as she gently stroked his hair, her voice sweet and soft. The words were not French, and the language not at all familiar to Athos. He felt as if he was intruding on an intimate scene, and cleared his throat ever so slightly.

Her voice trailed off, and she looked up at him, blushing a bit at having a witness.

"I…he was having trouble sleeping….and…"

Athos slid down the wall and sat next to her. "Denise, you do not have to explain anything to me. I am very glad that we have you here with us. Porthos usually would never consent to even try to sleep, and he badly needs the rest. So thank you."

She glanced at Athos for a moment, then fixed her eyes on Porthos again, her gaze full of compassion. "He has a good and generous heart."

"That he does," murmured Athos. He raised an eyebrow at her. "What were you singing when I came in? The melody and words were beautiful, but I did not recognize the language."

"It is Breton. Alain's mother was from Brittany, and she taught me some of the folk songs. The song I was singing is called "The Soldiers are Dressed in Red." It is about a brave soldier who dies in battle. It is really quite a melancholy song….I should not have chosen it." Her face flushed with regret as she realized how awkward the subject of the ballad was, especially considering Aramis' condition.

"Porthos had no idea what you were singing about, and you relaxed him enough to lull him to sleep-so it is of no consequence. You have a gift for comforting people, Denise…you are very much like your cousin."

"Perhaps it is because I have experienced deep sorrow myself. I know what it is like to desperately want to be comforted by someone who understands your pain." When her eyes met those of Athos once again, he understood that her grief over her husband's death was still very much a part of her.

"Thank you," Athos said simply, taking her hand. "Thank you for all you have done for Charlotte…and thank you for caring for my friend. Porthos is very dear to me." He squeezed her hand, then released it. "I hate to ask you to do this, as I am sure that Porthos has been sleeping only for a short time, but I need for you both to leave for a bit."

"But why?" asked Denise, mystified by the request. "If you need to change his dressings, I am not squeamish…and I'd rather Porthos sleep."

"I understand," replied Athos, choosing his words with care. "But someone who cares for Aramis very much wishes to visit him in private, and I have promised to make that happen. But I beg you...please do not speak of this to anyone. It could be a matter of life and death. I know I can count on your discretion."

Denise recognized by his tone that he was uneasy about facilitating this visit, and wondered who the mysterious person could be. She placed a hand on his arm, and looked at him with sympathy. "I know you would not ask this of me unless it were important, and I cannot refuse Aramis a visitor who is dear to him. I suppose it is time I got to bed anyway." She gazed down at the sleeping musketeer, and a wistful expression appeared on her face. "I had forgotten how lovely it was to be needed."

Athos felt a lump arise in his throat, and he held Porthos' head while she slipped out from underneath. "Good night, Athos. Please get some rest yourself." He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and then she was gone.

"Porthos." Athos spoke in an even, calm voice, knowing from experience that when woken from a deep sleep, his friend often instinctively lashed out at what he perceived as imminent danger.

"Porthos. Wake up." He lightly shook his shoulder. No response. His eyes fell on a cup of water sitting on a low table. Reaching for it, Athos dipped his fingers into it, then began to shower Porthos' face with drops of the liquid in a crude attempt at mimicking falling rain. It worked like a charm, with large brown eyes staring up at his within moments.

_Why did this never occur to me before?_ He thought, relieved at how easily he had completed his task.

"Where…where's Denise?" The big man, brain still fuzzy with sleep, peered around the room, his eyes searching for the seamstress.

"I asked her to leave for a bit." Athos took in a deep breath, knowing that Porthos was not going to like what came next. "And I must ask the same of you."

Porthos shook his head adamantly, his eyes flashing from sleepy to fierce in an instant. "Not happening, Athos. I will **not** leave Aramis in this state."

"You must trust me. It is **vital** that Aramis have some time alone."

The big man's eyes narrowed. "Then you had best explain, Athos...because I am not liking this at all."

The elder man allowed a moment of silence to descend upon the room. "I cannot say more, but I assure you it is a matter of the utmost importance."

"Utmost importance, huh?" Porthos snapped, his voice bitter. "Well then… you can **damn** well explain it to me! Athos, we are brothers…we **cannot** hide secrets from each other!"

"You mean **should not,**" responded Athos evenly. "We should not, but each one of us has done so at one time or another. I have, d'Artagnan has, Aramis has…and so have you."

"Aramis' life is at stake! I am** not l**eaving him until you can give me a better explanation than 'Because I say so, Porthos.' My skin may be dark, but I am not a servant—or a stable boy!"

_This is not going well._ Athos gave his brother a reproachful look. "Porthos, I have never treated you as anything other than an equal, and you know that."

"Do I?" flared Porthos. "Because I am not feeling especially equal right now."

"Then let me put it this way. An important person wishes to visit Aramis…privately."

"The King? Why would **he** care if I was here or not?" Porthos thought for a moment, expression suddenly darkening. "It's not the King." His voice was flat. "It's the Queen, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Athos, he needs to stop this insane flirtation! It can lead to nothing but trouble. How can you encourage it?"

"I am not exactly encouraging it!" hissed Athos. "How on earth do you expect me to say no to the queen?"

"I don't know…that's your problem, isn't it? But when you find out, for God's sake, let Aramis in on the secret."

"It's too late for that." Athos muttered the words on reflex, as he had thought them many, many times in his head in the months since Aramis had become the Queen's lover.

Porthos' head snapped up. "What does** that** mean?" he growled.

All of a sudden, Athos was tired. So very tired of keeping a secret this explosive from d'Artagnan and Porthos. It had been Aramis' decision, and he had made it with only the best of intentions, hoping that that ignorance would at least save his two comrades if his treason was discovered. There would be no way to save Athos from the gallows, as he had been at the convent, and therefore complicit in the actions of his brother. But now, with Aramis hovering at the edge of death, and d'Artagnan missing, it seemed as if the time had come for keeping of secrets to end.

"It means that Aramis slept with the Queen. At the convent…during the siege."

Porthos stared at him, then began to slowly shake his head. "**Please** tell me he didn't," he whispered. "You must be mistaken. Flirting—yes—but to become her lover?"

"I wish I could tell you I was wrong, but I saw them, Porthos….in bed together the next morning. There was no mistaking what had occurred."

"God, no," Porthos moaned, sitting up and putting his head in his hands. "**Aramis**, **why**?" he roared, his eyes burning with tears. He fell silent for a moment, then slammed his fist into the floor, glancing up at his injured friend, who was still lying unconscious on the table. His voice trembled, lowering to a husky rasp. "Why? You could have **any** woman in Paris…in **all** of France, for that matter…why the hell did you have to choose **her**?" Leaning his head back against the wall, he stared at the ceiling, his arms hanging limply at his side. "He'll hang if this becomes known." His eyes suddenly widened in panic, and he turned to Athos. "They are not still sleeping together, are they?"

"No. At least, I am reasonably sure they are not."

Porthos relaxed, his hands unclenching from the fists they had been in moments before. "Thank God he saw reason. She is a beautiful woman, and I suppose he cannot be faulted for desiring her…but—she is the Queen! We can only be thankful that this dalliance did not produce…" He abruptly turned pale. "It's worse than I thought, isn't it? The Dauphin…."

"Yes. At least, he believes the child is his. And for that matter, so does the Queen."

"And that's why he didn't tell me," murmured Porthos, understanding flooding into his face. "He was trying to protect me."

Athos nodded.

"Does d'Artagnan know?"

"No."

"Well, at least he is still safe," breathed Porthos. "But I would much rather know and risk my neck. This way, I can keep an eagle eye on Aramis. Once he recovers, I will not let that man out of my sight."

"He may have a slight problem with that," Athos said lightly. "It may put a damper on his romantic rendezvous."

"Serves him right," declared Porthos stoutly. "A little break from interaction with the fairer sex won't hurt him a bit."

"I suspect he may have a different opinion."

"Well, that's just too bad, isn't it?" Porthos smirked. "Oh, I'm going to enjoy dogging his every step. Say hello to your new shadow, Aramis."

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He was in complete darkness, but his senses told him that his place of imprisonment was filthy, and the air stifling. D'Artagnan strained at the chains that bound him to the wall, but they gave absolutely no sign of being anything but indestructible. For what seemed like the hundredth time in the short period that he had been alert, he counted the shackles.

There were four in total—two around his wrists, and two encircling his ankles. He had been beaten senseless when he had resisted his captors and tried to make a break for it in the maze. Upon regaining consciousness, he had found himself here—wherever this hellhole was-clad only in his breeches, shivering from the cold.

Even worse, the skin on his wrists was now rubbed raw, and the muscles in his arms and legs were impossibly cramped. His tongue was swollen from thirst, and the faint coppery taste of blood permeated his entire mouth. Steps could be heard in the distance, and grew closer, then stopped some feet away.

D'Artagnan held his breath as shuffling was heard, followed by the sound of a key grinding in the lock. A door swung open, and a dim shaft of light penetrated the blackness. Blinking to try to adjust his eyes quickly, d'Artagnan was able to make out the outline of a large form advancing rapidly toward him. A moment later, he felt the sting of a whip, and gasped as a lacerating pain shot across his chest. It was followed by another, then another. Then as quickly as it had begun, the action of the whip ceased, and the hulking form turned, heading for the door.

"Who are you? What do you want from me?" shouted d'Artagnan, fear descending on him as he realized that he was about to be plunged once again into the seclusion of a dark cell. The only answer he got was a chilling laugh as the door slammed shut. The brief relief that had come from a moment of fresh air was erased by the foul-smelling stench that now seemed to permeate into his very pores.

He suddenly felt nauseous, and fought the urge to vomit. A small furry animal suddenly ran across his left foot, and he jumped. A moment later, the animal launched itself onto his leg, scrabbling with its claws in order to gain a foothold. _Rats._

He frantically shook his leg, but the rat held on, his grip tenacious. D'Artagnan roared in frustration, and was rewarded for his effort by the sensation of sharp teeth sinking into his calf. The more he tried to dislodge the rat, the deeper the teeth ground into his flesh. The pain was excruciating, but he forced himself to stop and stand as still as possible, biting his lip to restrain himself from screaming.

As tears began to sting his eyes, he tasted blood, and prayed that the rat would tire of biting an unresisting object. As if on cue, the jaws of the rodent began to relax, and the rat scuttled down his leg, making low, growling noises as it retreated across the room. Sagging against the slimy stones, d'Artagnan felt the surge of adrenaline pass. Bile rose in his throat, and he gagged, struggling not to retch._ Not here. Not now._

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**So much for the easiest mission all year... **

**If you have a moment, let me know what you thought...your comments are appreciated more than you know!**


	17. Chapter 17

"Confidence...thrives on honesty, on honor, on the sacredness of obligations, on faithful protection and on unselfish performance. Without them, it cannot live."

Franklin Delano Roosevelt

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**CHAPTER XVII**

It was nearly midnight, and the chateau had settled down to sleep. The King was snoring, and Milady impatiently pushed him on to his side, annoyed with the noise. _For heaven's sake, can this man not let me have one night of peaceful sleep? At least Athos never snored._

She closed her eyes and turned on her side, winding the silken sheets tightly around her body. She thought of the bedroom she and her husband had shared at la Fère, and in an instant, it was as if she could feel his touch on her skin all over again…

_They had married in secret. She had considered it a huge victory that she had persuaded her former lover, the defrocked priest now posing as the village curate, to perform the ceremony. He had been suspicious for months that she was pursuing Olivier d'Athos, but she had successfully deflected his relentless questions. It was not until she was absolutely sure that the young nobleman was in the palm of her hand that she had laid her cards on the table._

_Bernard had cried, begged, pleaded, and scolded her, all to no avail. To be fair, he had likely believed that she would live out the rest of her life with him in the simple cottage just west of the la Fère estate. In a way, she felt sorry for him…but really, was he not the one to blame? How could any man of his ilk be so vain as to think she would be satisfied to live until the day she died under pretense of being his sister? No, he had always been a means to an end for her-a stepping stone to bigger and better things._

_They had returned to la Fère under cover of darkness, and Athos had led her up the winding back staircase to his suite of rooms. When he had drawn her into his chamber and shut the door, she had been speechless for an instant. A fire had been kindled in the hearth, and cast a warm glow over everything in the room._

_The mahogany four poster bed, the crest of the la Fère family proudly carved into the four foot high headboard, was the biggest, grandest bed she had ever seen. It was adorned with dark blue damask curtains that were tied back with silver cord. She tentatively touched the polished wood, wondering if this was all real. Athos had wrapped his arms around her from behind, then had slowly begun to explore the curve of her neck with his lips. _

Even now, she could call to mind at will the memories of the passion they had shared—and those moments had sustained her through a series of increasingly prominent, but tiresome, lovers. Rochefort, at least, was a bit more imaginative. She respected men who were secure enough to let her take charge in the bedroom when she so desired. Few men had returned from years in a Spanish prison without being completely and utterly broken. Rochefort, however, seemed to have only gained in strength and cunning.

But more importantly, he had the vision and the audacity to plan the unthinkable…and he had invited her to join him, recognizing that she was cut from the same cloth as he was. Together, they planned to bring the King to his knees. Very soon, in fact, the two of them would rule France, and no one would be able to stop them—least of all the King's exalted Musketeers.

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Athos had checked the corridor leading to the surgery twice now. Porthos signaled to him from the end of the hall, then melted into the shadows. With the slightest movement of his hand, Athos beckoned to the Queen, who padded down the hallway in her slippers, the Dauphin tight against her chest, well hidden by her voluminous black cloak.

The clouds had finally lifted, and the sky was lit by thousands of stars. Anne held her breath as she passed by the window, amazed at how brilliant the constellations appeared. _How I wish Aramis could see this. He once told me he would lie on the flat roof of his parents' house for hours on summer nights, watching for shooting stars._

Athos snapped his fingers softly, and Anne stopped, startled. He threw her a reproachful look, and motioned…as politely as possible…for her to hasten her pace. Within thirty seconds, she was at the door to the surgery, trembling at the thought of seeing the man she loved lying unconscious on a table, critically wounded.

She had truly thought she was mentally prepared, but when Athos ushered her inside, a sob choked her throat at her first glimpse of the injured musketeer. His dark hair was matted to his head, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead, trickling down his face from time to time. He moaned, his head restlessly moving from side to side. He seemed to be agitated, and suddenly began to cry out in Spanish. His speech was slurred, but Anne appeared to understand him, for she began to weep brokenly, hugging her son closer to her chest.

"It is my fault!" Her voice was anguished. "All of this! He should never have been here. He thinks he is dying, Athos! He is calling for the puppy he lost when he was six…the sister who died as a toddler…his mother…I cannot stand it!"

Before he knew it, she had thrust the Dauphin into his arms, and was at her lover's side. In an instant, she summoned up all the skills she had learned as a Queen, and transformed herself into an island of calm. She closed her eyes, and took in a deep breath, then reached for a cloth, tenderly wiping Aramis' fevered brow. Her lips brushed against his forehead, and she whispered to him in Spanish, her tone low and teasing. She seemed to be waiting for a reaction, and paled a bit when the musketeer remained unresponsive. Taking his face in her hands, she lowered her mouth to his, and kissed him.

"His lips are still warm." She smiled through the tears glistening in her eyes. "Leave it to Aramis. The rest of his body is as cold as ice, but he can still…." Her voice trailed off, and she reached for his hand, kissing the palm, then pressing it to her cheek. "...melt my heart," she whispered.

Athos had tactfully turned his back, carefully placing the Dauphin against his broad shoulder. He had had little experience with babies, and was somewhat in awe of them. But as the infant instinctively snuggled against Athos, one little hand fascinated with the tactile sensation of his beard, the musketeer suddenly pictured Charlotte, tired and sleepy, handing him their newborn son.

_The little boy would be blissfully content, having nursed until his small belly was full. His wife would curl up against him, and her arm would settle around his waist as she drifted off to sleep_. He smiled at the thought. Charlotte never slept well unless her body was in contact with his in some way. Some nights, he would awaken to find her firm breasts pressed against his back, one arm around his chest. On other occasions, her cold feet would slip between his calves, startling him out of a deep sleep. The first few times, he had thought she had done it on purpose in order to tease him.

However, he had soon realized that she unconsciously sought his warmth for reassurance as well as protection. Although she rarely spoke of New Year's Eve, he knew that the experience of hypothermia had traumatized her. Athos had been careful to make sure that the rewarming process had been as gentle and as pleasant as possible…even if it had meant that he had had to spend the night with his body pressed against her, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets. A smile tugged at his mouth as the memory.

_That's what we Musketeers do…we sacrifice ourselves for the good of those we protect._

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

Charlotte had grown concerned by Athos' prolonged absence. He had been vague about exactly why he had to return to the surgery, but had promised to be back before long. She paced the room, wrapping a shawl around her thin dressing gown. She had plaited her hair into a long braid earlier, then had restlessly undone it, rebraided it, and unwound it again. Shaking it loose, a thought occurred to her. Maybe Aramis had taken a turn for the worse. Maybe Andrés had….

Suddenly, she could not stand the suspense any longer, and left the room, closing the door softly behind her. The hallway was dark, and she had not thought to bring a candle, expecting that the moonlight would illuminate her way. However, the heavy curtains in the corridor has been pulled shut, probably by servants trying to preserve what little warmth was left in the chilly air of the passage.

She felt along the wall, proceeding slowly as she allowed her eyes to adjust to the dark. Her footsteps grew more sure as she got her bearings. When Charlotte passed a large marble column, she knew that the surgery was at the end of the next hallway to the right. Becoming more confident, she picked up her pqce.

What happened next occurred so quickly that she could never identify exactly what had caused her to lose her balance. One moment, she was yards from the door of the surgery. The next instant, she had tripped. Before she could hit the ground, a pair of muscular arms caught her. For a split second, she thought it was Athos—but when she was shoved unceremoniously against the wall, a lean body pinning her in place, she knew she had been very much mistaken.

_Silence._ The silence seemed to go on forever as the bristling stubble of a man's jaw scraped against her cheek. The slow, controlled breathing that she heard in her ear was even more menacing.

"Ah, Comtesse. I fear that you are exercising **extremely** poor judgement by wandering the halls of a royal residence so late at night. There are unfortunately less than honorable men who would use such an opportunity to prey upon a sweet young thing like yourself." A hand slid to her waist, and she fought the urge to flinch as the heat of his fingers burned through her thin dressing gown.

"But perhaps your husband does not value you quite as much as you think. I myself would likely give my wife a thrashing if I caught her alone in such a situation." His hand advanced to the curve of her hip, and he began to knead her soft flesh with his fingers. "After all, a man of less than sterling character might think that she was actually inviting attention."

"Get—off-me!" Charlotte put her best effort into making her voice sound menacing, but her heart fell when Rochefort only began to laugh. _It's exactly what he was hoping for, isn't it?_ Without hesitating, she screamed as loud as she could, "ATHOS!"

The Comte's hand flashed up to her mouth, and her head snapped back against his chest as he pushed her even harder against the wall. "**Shut up!** I am not done with you yet—not by a long shot."

"I beg to differ." A cool voice came from behind them, and Rochefort winced as a steel blade pressed against his spine. "I advise you to release my wife this instant, or I will not hesitate to run you through."

"This woman-" choked Rochefort. "Is nothing but a common whore. She …"

In a flash, Athos slashed his rapier across Rochefort's back, causing him to gasp and release Charlotte. As the blond man turned to face the musketeer, Athos' eyes flashed fire. "You DO NOT speak of my wife, Rochefort!" he growled, his voice low and menacing. "You DO NOT look at my wife. You DO NOT think of my wife. You DO NOT. Period. Now if you are man enough, draw your sword! I demand satisfaction, and I intend to obtain it. Right here…right now."

* * *

**Credit to TheseWordsAreUnspoken for inspiring Athos' speech to Rochefort with one of her reviews. Those words were begging to be spoken! ;)**


	18. Chapter 18

_"All human actions have one or more of these seven causes: chance, nature, compulsions, habit, reason, passion, desire."_

Aristotle

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**CHAPTER XVIII**

Rochefort sneered as he unsheathed his own rapier, the crisp sound of metal being unleashed from its scabbard ringing through the hall. "I am man enough, alright. And I am confident enough in my own abilities not to slash my opponent across the back when he cannot defend himself!"

"Yes, you are a true man of honour," Athos muttered sarcastically, his eyes focused and predatory. "So much so that you attempt to assault a defenseless woman in the dead of night."

"Is that what you think?" Rochefort's mouth curled up in a smirk. "I suppose it **is** difficult to accept when the eye of one's wife goes wandering and she looks for..."

Before he could finish the sentence, Athos' rapier had swept upwards, tracing a dgraceful, but deadly, arc towards his opponent. Rochefort's own blade leapt up to meet his, successfully blocking his advance.

They were both accomplished swordsman, but Athos clearly had the edge in technique. With a few skilled moves, he had backed his opponent ten feet down the hall. But what Rochefort lacked in skill, he made up for in cunning. As Athos pressed him, his rapier flashing in a dizzying succession of moves, Rochefort suddenly hooked a foot between the musketeer's legs, sending him sprawling to the floor.

Athos lost his grip on his sword, and Rochefort kicked it out of the way with a chilling laugh. "Not so heroic now, are you, la Fère?" The musketeer, stunned momentarily, shook his head, his eyes unfocused a bit. Wiping the sweat off his forehead with his free hand, Rochefort stood grinning over his foe. "So, do you want to beg, or shall I just finish you off?"

His vision sharpening, Athos saw Charlotte suddenly throw herself at Rochefort, hitting him square in the back. Although he easily outweighed her by 50 pounds, Charlotte had the advantage of surprise, and he fell forward, his sword clattering to the floor. She seized the hilt and was about to toss it to Athos, but he shook his head slightly. _Take it!_ Her mind screamed. _This is no time to fight like a gentleman! _

Her husband soon set her mind at ease, for he was on the nobleman in an instant, and they were soon grappling with each other. Rochefort had clearly learned the finer points of fighting dirty while in prison. Within a minute, he had tried to poke Athos in the eye, and had narrowly missed delivering a vicious blow to his groin. With a deft move, Athos rolled to the side, then flung himself on top of Rochefort, closing his strong hands around his opponent's neck.

The nobleman's hands scrabbled at Athos' weapons belt, and Charlotte noticed with horror that his fingers were straining to seize the musketeer's main gauche.

"Athos! He's trying to get your parrying dagger!"

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Porthos barrel onto the scene, smashing Rochefort's hand with his large fist. The man shrieked in pain, then gurgled as Athos' hands closed tighter around his neck.

"Leave him, Athos!" Porthos closed his arms around his comrade in a bear hug, trying to lift him off Rochefort.

"He's a dead man!" Athos, twisting wildly, fought Porthos with the same fury that Rochefort was deploying against Treville, who was engaged in attempting to peel the nobleman off his lieutenant. After some minutes, the Captain finally tired of the struggle. He whipped out his pistol, striking his opponent solidly on the back of the head, sending him stunned to the floor.

"I swear, I'll kill him! He WILL NOT touch my wife EVER AGAIN!" Porthos had seen Athos angry on multiple occasions, but he had never seen such pure, murderous rage in his eyes.

"No, he won't," echoed Porthos grimly. "We'll make damn sure of that."

"Get Charlotte out of here!" Treville snapped, his blue eyes steely. "That's an order."

Taking his wife by the hand, Athos led her down the hall to the safety of their chamber, thankful that minutes earlier, he had returned the Queen to her own rooms.

Once inside, he closed the door and stood against it, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes at Charlotte, who stood facing him, toying with a ribbon she had left on the dressing table.

"I thought I asked you to stay here."

"So you did," agreed Charlotte equably, struggling to keep her voice calm despite the conflicting emotions roiling inside her.

He stared down at the floor, then raised his eyes to hers. The look he gave her had caused many a seasoned soldier to quail, but she held his gaze steadily.

"And instead of obeying me, you decided it would be a good idea to roam aimlessly around the halls late at night? **Unescorted**?"

"Do **not** talk to me like I am one of your men! I was **hardly** roaming aimlessly." Charlotte retorted. "I headed straight for the surgery. I was afraid something had gone wrong with Andrés…or Aramis."

"And you didn't trust me to send for you if that was the case." The words were phrased as an accusation, not a question.

She shook her head stubbornly. "It is not a matter of trust, and you **know** it. When patients take a turn for the worse, there is often not time to leisurely send for help."

"You took a very foolish risk!" He closed the distance between them in two steps, and seized her forearms.

"**Please** explain to me how walking down a hallway in one of the most secure buildings in France is risky."

"It is risky when Rochefort is in the same building!" he growled. "What do you think would have happened if I hadn't come along?"

"If he is such a risk, perhaps you should have been more explicit with your warnings!"

"What more do you need?!" He shook her slightly. "Have you** no** common sense? You heard how the man spoke to you earlier!"

"Oh yes, it is much easier to blame **me**, because that saves **you** from having to admit that you failed to protect me! Where were you when I needed you?" Her voice broke as she shoved him away. "I don't want to be screamed at! I don't want a lecture! I want to be comforted-I want you to tell me that you will never let anything happen to me! Why do you have to make **everything** so difficult?"

Athos felt a wave of remorse flood through his body. _She is **so** right_, he thought, a knot forming in his stomach. _I am placing the blame at her feet in order to make myself feel better. As her husband, my job is to protect her…and if I cannot be by her side, to give her the information or skills necessary to defend herself. And I did neither_.

"I am sorry," he whispered. "I have once again failed you." His hands trembled as he ran them through his hair, and his eyes instinctively sought the stand where the square crystal decanter stood. Within seconds, he had poured himself a large snifter of brandy, and downed it in one gulp. He slowly turned and advanced to her, a haunted look on his face.

"Please forgive me." He tilted her chin up with his hand, his touch feather-light. "If anything had happened to you—" Their eyes met, and he saw how truly afraid she had been. He gently scooped her up in his arms, and carried her to the bed. Settling her back against the pillows, he laid down next to her, then drew her to his chest.

"You and Denise will leave tomorrow. I cannot permit either of you to stay here any longer. It was a huge mistake to even bring you here after what happened to Jacques Boisvert. Now d'Artagnan is missing, and Rochefort is prowling about, no doubt scheming to take Richelieu's place at the King's side. We have no idea what other dangers we will be facing in the next days ahead…and I need you to be safe."

"But Andres…and Aramis…I cannot possibly…"

"You **can**, and you **will**," Athos answered, his voice imbued with the commanding, comte-like tone that let her know he would brook no argument. "And after this is over, my next task is to teach you some basic self-defense skills. After all, although it is uncommon, it is not unheard of for the families of musketeers to be threatened. And when I was holding the Dauphin tonight, I thought…"

"You were **what**?" Charlotte glanced up at him, her eyes full of amusement. "Since when were you drafted to replace Constance? Don't tell me you actually changed a diaper!"

"It is a long story," he answered wryly, "but suffice to say that I lent a hand for a minute or two."

"And you thought what?" she prompted, her fingers lazily tracing a pattern on the triangle of his chest that was exposed by his shirt.

"I thought of what it might be like for us to have…" he took her hand and kissed her knuckles. "...a child together. And I do not want anything to stand in the way of our happiness."

Her dark lashes fluttered against his neck, and she exhaled slowly. "This is all rather sudden," she murmured, her voice teasing. "After all, we have only been married for a few weeks."

"Are you telling me that the idea of refining our skills in the bedroom in order to create a child is not especially appealing?" He raised an eyebrow, and she felt the delightful thrill deep in her belly that was now a familiar response to his romantic overtures.

"Did I say that?" she replied with a seductive smile, tugging at his shirt and pulling it in one easy movement over his head.

"Well, no," he admitted, rolling her over on her back. "But it seems as if the playing field is not exactly level at the moment. How is it that I am already bare to the waist, and you are still fully clothed?"

"I have no idea… but I am not unwilling to even things out," she murmured. "However, I may need some assistance."

"Never let it be said that I have let a woman in need of relief go unaided." He bent to kiss her, sliding her nightdress over her shoulders. She arched her back as he slid the material to her waist, his hands skimming over her breasts.

She gave him an appraising look. "I suppose you **have** shown some degree of skill in these endeavors."

"**Some degree**?" His voice lowered to the smouldering timbre that he had found very effective when deployed in the bedroom. "What is 'some degree' on a scale of 1 to 10?"

"Let me think…" she hummed for a moment, deep in thought. "Am I grading you in terms of required elements, or originality? Is degree of difficulty to be considered?"

"You are **so** overthinking this," he muttered, burning a trail of kisses along her neck. His hands had already moved further afield, and were paying court to her in a way that had already her quivering with pleasure. "In my mind, a 1—that means you would as soon sit by the fire with a book as lie with me. And I **really** hope you are not thinking along those lines. 5—well, that would be-not bad, but not anything you couldn't stop thinking about. And a 10—" As he paused, she wove her fingers through his hair, beginning to moan ever so softly—"Well, that would likely be something like this…."

Some time later, they lay with their bodies entwined, the heat of their passion just beginning to cool. "Easily above 10…" Charlotte sighed as they drifted off to sleep. "I will so miss you…. How long before you come home?"

She had no idea that the storm of the century had blown in over the forest of Fontainebleau. What had begun as freezing rain an hour before had turned to heavy snow, and fierce gusts of wind made for near whiteout conditions. No one would be leaving the chateau for the foreseeable future.

But when they arose the next morning, it was what they found hanging on the door of their room that was even more disturbing. A parchment in crude lettering was addressed to the Comte de la Fère.

_"Whereas the Comte has been accused of crimes against the people, both sins of omission and commission, he is summoned to appear before the Court of the Archangels of Justice, to be held at the Oak of Truth in the forest of Fontainebleau, at midnight one week hence. Failure to appear will result in an automatic death sentence. You have been warned."_

The seal below bore the imprint of a black rose, with angel wings affixed to it.

* * *

**Other than a brief romantic interlude for our newlyweds, things appear to have gone from bad to worse...**


	19. Chapter 19

_"The man who insists upon se__eing with perfect clearness before he decides, never decides. Accept life, and you must accept regret."_

Henri Frederic Amiel

* * *

**CHAPTER XIX**

Charlotte had known something was wrong the moment Athos had come back into the room, frowning as he carefully studied a document.

"What is it?" she had asked, trying to keep the tension out of her voice.

"Nothing," he said briefly.

"Athos, by the look on your face, it is far from nothing. And with the weather as miserable as it is outside, it will be impossible for me to travel for the foreseeable future. So I would really prefer for you to be completely honest with me about whatever you may be facing."

He glanced up at her. "I know logically that you are right, but I hate having to involve you in this."

"I knew what I was getting into when I married you," she responded calmly.

"Did you?" he asked, his voice somber. "I wonder sometimes."

"Well, no one has a crystal ball, but I was certain that the benefits far outweighed the risks….and last night was no exception." She touched her lips lightly to his, coaxing a quirk from his lips that almost resembled a smile.

"I was merely doing my husbandly duty," he replied with a shrug. "The vows did say that I was to worship you with my body, after all."

"There will be no worshipping at the altar of my body in the near future if you do not show me what is on that paper," Charlotte retorted.

He sighed. "Very well."

She scanned the lines, then looked up at him. "I don't like this at all."

"That makes two of us," he responded, leaning against the door. "But I do have a week to come up with a plan….and if the snow keeps up, we will be doing little over the next day or two except trying to keep everyone from getting cabin fever."

Treville's voice was suddenly heard in the hall, barking orders at footmen. "That may be a difficult task," said Charlotte ruefully.

The Captain was in less than merry spirits. The King had already called him to task for the weather, as well as for the fact that there was a limited supply of firewood in the chateau. _As if either is my fault_, thought Treville in exasperation. _I do not exactly have control over nature, much as I would like to at times. And I** did** suggest that we send out men to gather more firewood when we first got here, but the King insisted that they be put to work rearranging the furniture in his suite so it was more comfortable for Milady._

In order to conserve the firewood they had left, Treville had ordered for Andrés and Aramis to be brought into the spacious library that was located in the guest wing. It was actually quite a beautiful room, the walls lined from floor to ceiling with books graced with rich leather covers and gilt pages.

There were two_ chaise longues_ with adjustable reclining backs that would keep the wounded men comfortable and close to the fire. In addition, several richly upholstered loveseats and multiple large, comfortable armchairs were scattered around the room, arranged into small groupings for private conversation. The Captain had declared that only three fires should be kept lit in the chateau during the day—one in the King's suite, one in the Queen's chambers, and one in the library.

Charlotte was gratified to see that both of her patients had improved quite a bit overnight. She had first gone to tend to Aramis, with Athos accompanying her. Porthos was sitting by his side, chuckling to himself as they entered the room.

Athos smiled at the sight of the big man looking so relaxed. "I take it that Aramis has improved overnight."

"Oh, he's improved, all right," Porthos grinned. "And he has been nothin' but entertainin' since I gave him some of that pain medicine you left."

"It's not the same concoction you gave me at the palace, is it?" Athos inquired, a worried expression on his face.

"No, it's not," Charlotte replied, trying, but failing, to suppress a smile. "So you need not worry that Aramis will attempt to flirt with Porthos."

"He won't?" asked Porthos, a bit disappointed. "But I was so lookin' forward to leadin' him on." His booming laugh echoed through the library.

"Porthos, don't be a tease." Athos gave him a reprimanding look, then glanced over at Andrés. A young woman with long, dark hair that curled down her back was bent over him, arranging his blanket. "Who is that?"

"That's Andrés' sister, Tamara," replied Porthos. "She came up from the village before the snow started last night."

"Really?" Athos' voice had imperceptively changed. "Did she—"

At that moment, Aramis, who had been mumbling to himself, opened his eyes and blinked at his visitors, appearing somewhat dazed.

"Porthos likes fish," he announced, then gave Athos a huge grin, as if he were immensely proud of himself.

"I do, that's right," answered Porthos with a gleam in his eye. "And what does Athos like?"

"Snails," he replied immediately. "**And** Charlotte. But not necessarily in that order…well, I guess it depends on how hungry he is at the time…and what he is hungry for…of course, he also likes to recite Shakespeare's sonnets when he is dancing in the rain…or is it when he is bathing by moonlight? I forget exactly what happened on that trip to Avignon…" His voice trailed off and he nodded back to sleep.

"**I** want to hear what happened on the trip to Avignon." Charlotte nudged Athos, her face bright with interest.

"You must dismiss the wild ravings of a man under the influence of drugs," he replied calmly. "No such thing ever happened."

"I'll tell you the whole story later," whispered Porthos loudly, much to Charlotte's delight. "It's quite embarrasin', so I can understand why Athos…"

A shriek of joy was heard from the doorway, and they all turned to see what was the source of the sound. A little girl about six years old stood clutching Annette's hand. She was dressed in a rich brown woolen dress, which was ornamented with a pink sash at the waist that exactly matched the bow in her dark brown hair. Her rosy-cheeked face was suffused with excitement.

"PAPA!" she squealed, and launched herself forward. Charlotte suddenly realized who this exuberant child must be, and forced herself to look at Athos.

He was white as a sheet, and stared at the little girl, his eyes locked on her face. "PAPA!" For just an instant, she seemed to be running straight at them, and Athos' arms involuntarily began to move. Charlotte smoothly caught both his hands, and as the blinding rush of brown skirts went by them, he visibly deflated, his head dropping to his chest.

"Courage, my love," she whispered in his ear. "You must maintain your composure, for your own sake, as well as for Annette and Catalina's."

Behind them, Andrés' rich voice could be heard, although he spoke in Spanish, rendering Porthos, Athos, and Charlotte unable to understand him.

_"My little princess! I think you have grown in the several days we were apart…you are certainly more beautiful. Come give me a hug!"_

_"Mind his shoulder, darling! The right one!"_ called out Annette affectionately in Spanish. Her eyes then settled on Athos, and the blood drained from her face. _I had no idea he would be here! I did not want their first meeting to be like this. He was entirely unprepared, and looks as if he is about to faint._

She went to bid her husband good morning, stopping only to give Charlotte a brief hug, whispering, "I am so sorry! Please know I never would have brought her here just now if I had known he was in the room."

"I know," answered Charlotte, sensing her distress. She realized that Annette had been loath to speak with Athos directly in front of her husband.

Athos' eyes were shut tightly, and he was trying to slow down his breathing, which had come in ragged gasps when he first saw his daughter. In his mind, he saw her once again launching herself from the doorway. This time, however, she would run into his arms, and he would hug her against his chest, never wanting to let go.

Ever since he had been made aware that his daughter was a mere few miles away, his mind had been busy trying to decide what he would say to her. He had found threads of his speech sneaking into his mind when he was riding in the forest. It had crept into his thoughts when he had laid awake last night, listening to Charlotte's even breathing. Although his speech had crystallized in his mind, but he doubted how much he would ever be able to say out loud…for Andrés Enriquez believed beyond a shadow of a doubt that Catalina was his daughter. Behind him, he heard the little girl giggling as Andrés teased her.

_I have loved you since the day you were born. You were created out of a love that was nothing but pure._

_It was not my choice, or your mother's, that we were separated. _

_I failed you both, and I am so, so sorry. I can never make up for the lost years, but I would love to be part of your life._

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

The room in which d'Artagnan was being held had become progressively colder. He had been shivering from the chill hours ago, but now seemed to be burning up with fever. Every muscle in his body was aching, and the headache he had seemed to worsen as time went by. At first, it had been a dull throbbing in his temples, but had now escalated into a relentless pounding that seemed to originate from behind his eyes.

He had been offered some foul-smelling water earlier by one of his smirking captors, but had refused. Despite the fact that his stomach was essentially empty, he had persistent nausea that gave way to bouts of dry heaving that only served to worsen the pain in his head. He suspected that the rat bite he had sustained several days ago was spreading infection throughout his body.

He leaned his cheek against the wall, trying to get a bit of relief from the coolness of the stones. The shooting pain in his left calf was a constant reminder of the visit he had received from the rat. He had heard intermittent snuffling ever since, but the rodent had not approached him again…until now. A long tail whisked across his boots, and he jumped, cursing.

The rat sprung at d'Artagnan, this time grasping hold of his breeches above the knee. In an instant, he had scrambled up to the young man's waist. The musketeer blindly felt for the rat in the darkness, and got a hand around his chest. However, the rather agile rodent managed to twist his head to the side, sinking his teeth once again into d'Artagnan's hand. This time, the animal succeeded in penetrating the skin between the thumb and index finger of d'Artagnan's right hand.

The young man roared in anger, and shook his hand vigorously, catching the rat by surprise. The rodent lost his hold and was flung across the room, squeaking angrily in protest.

The door was flung open, and one of his captors filled the doorway. The light from the lantern he held doubled the pain behind d'Artagnan's eyes, and he covered his face with his hands, moaning as the nausea returned.

"Shut up!" snarled the man. "If you want to keep from dyin', you'd best drink this concoction." He seized one of the musketeer's hands and thrust a cup into it. D'Artagnan gagged at the smell, which reminded him of rotten eggs. His captor smirked. "It smells foul, but it'll fight any infection from the rat bite. It's your choice though…take it or leave it. Suits me fine if you die, because then I get to go home early." He left the room, chortling heartily.

When he shut the door, he walked down a long hallway that led to a crumbling stone staircase. Ascending that, he found himself at a metal door, and rapped sharply on it twice, waited five seconds, then knocked three more times.

It was opened by a stunning woman with dark hair and green eyes. He eyed her appreciatively, but she merely glared at him and then moved away haughtily, seating herself next to the Comte de Rochefort, who sat behind an elaborately carved mahogany desk that was detailed with gold leaf.

"So, is our young friend enjoying the hospitality?" Rochefort's voice was silky, but had an undertone of menace to it that always made this man, a young local by the name of Georges Beranset, uneasy.

"Yes, your Grace."

"Have you succeeded in getting him to drink the elixir Milady was able to procure?"

"Yes, your Grace. He has just had the first dose about five minutes ago."

"Excellent." Rochefort leaned back, and steepled his fingers thoughtfully. "When it takes effect, please use the script we gave you earlier, and report back to us his state of mind when the potion wears off."

"Certainly, your Grace."

"You may go," he said imperiously, and waved his hand to motion the man out of the room.

When the door shut, Rochefort regarded Milady with admiration. "You, my dear, seem to be the answer to my prayers."

"And if we are able to work together to kill Athos and then finish the King," she breathed, her green eyes lighting up at the thought, "there will be no one in France powerful enough to stop us."

"To our unholy alliance," proposed Rochefort, picking up a goblet, then handing one to Milady. She lifted hers in a salute, then they both drank deeply, each relishing the thought of the throne of France finally being within reach.

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed! I so appreciate all the reviews and favorites! our comments brighten my day more than you know...**

**Credit to LadyCavil for Porthos and his love of fish ;)**


	20. Chapter 20

_"Whatever there be of progress in life comes not through adaptation but through daring."_

Henry Miller

* * *

**CHAPTER XX**

Athos walked to the door of the library and exited the room, his pace picking up as he sought to distance himself from the raw pain of seeing his daughter for the first time.

He strode down the corridor, then turned left. He found himself in a long gallery that had a half-dozen recessed windows. Now that he was sure he was alone, he slowed, glancing out the first window at the maelstrom of snow that was still blowing outside. He stopped, bracing himself against the window frame, then leaned his forehead against the chilly pane, seeking solace in the ice-cold chill of the glass.

_My daughter has a father who loves her. I should be grateful—happy that another man stepped forward to take my place, possibly doing better than I ever could have. Who am I to even think of shattering her identity by claiming her as my own? For in my heart of hearts, that is what I would like to do. But that would also destroy Annette's marriage, for Andrés would then realize that she had played him false for years by letting him believe that Catalina was his daughter. And I would rather die than do that. So I shall have to be content with being a kindly acquaintance, knowing that she is well cared for and loved beyond measure._

He felt a pair of arms suddenly surround him from behind, and he turned, wordlessly folding Charlotte into a tight embrace.

"I am so sorry," she whispered, laying her cheek against his chest. "I can only imagine how hard that must have been for you."

"It's just…" His voice failed him, and he cleared his throat. "After all those years…the hoping, the praying that she would be happy and safe…**why can't** I be satisfied to just see her, and know that she is—content, and has parents that love her? **Why?** It makes me feel like a very small, very selfish person."

Charlotte looked up, and took his face in her hands, her thumbs travelling along the cheekbones that she now knew so well. "Athos, I would be much more worried if it didn't bother you. What man could see a beautiful little girl like that and not have his heart ache desperately for her?"

"What did I do to deserve you?" Athos murmured, his lips pressing against her forehead in the softest of kisses. "You are so understanding, so generous of spirit..."

"As are you," she whispered. "And that is why I love you." They held each other for a few moments, content to draw upon the support that was inherent in their silent embrace.

"I think I am ready to go back." His voice had regained his strength, and his expression was resolute. "I **want** to go back."

They returned to the library, and passed the morning pleasantly, with Charlotte and Athos watching over Aramis while Porthos got some sleep. The musketeer slept for a long period, awakening only for a brief period of time. "Has Porthos put on the blue dress yet?" he asked urgently.

"The blue one? Aramis, really. I thought you were a better judge of color than that!" Athos shook his head, looking grave. "The crimson one really suits him better."

"Athos, don't treat me like I'm stupid!" Aramis hissed. "You know as well as I do that the squirrel who is our informant told us it **had** to be blue!" He looked around guardedly. "It's meant to be a signal to the peacocks," he whispered, his voice much louder than he thought.

"A signal?" Athos' eyes crinkled in amusement.

Aramis sighed in exasperation. "Do I have to explain **everything** to you? Next time,** you** deal with the squirrel...and the blasted hedgehog! He is even more temperamental… **do NOT laugh at me, Athos**! I know you have been buying snails on the black market from him…all to feed your disgusting addiction!" He fixed his eyes on his friend accusingly. "Does Charlotte know?"

"It's okay, Aramis," Charlotte broke in, her voice soothing. "It doesn't matter to me. I know all of Athos' deepest, darkest secrets now."

"Do you?" Aramis responded, his voice becoming slightly slurred as he smiled broadly. "Well then…I think it is high time we livened things up by playing a game."

Porthos strode in, looking remarkably refreshed after a few hours of sleep. He had Denise on his arm, and she blushed a bit as she felt several pairs of eyes on her. "I'm in. What game?"

Charlotte noticed that Athos was staring at Aramis, trying his best to look authoritative. "Aramis, we are **NOT** playing **THE** game. Not here—not now."

"Someone's a scaredy cat! Someone's a scaredy cat!" chanted Aramis, smirking as he spied Viscount van der Hede and Prince Radziwill enter the room. "I bet falconers are not afraid of having a little fun!"

The Dutchman grinned at his companion. "We are both bored out of our minds. I believe we are game for whatever you have in mind."

"ONLY THE BEST GAME EVER!" Aramis' enthusiasm was contagious, and Annette and Andrés glanced over, curious as to what was afoot. "NEVER HAVE I EVER!"

Charlotte hid a smile behind her hand as Athos groaned. "I will definitely need some wine to get through this."

"You are in luck, my friend." Porthos strode over to a large cabinet with a design of ornate, inlaid wood, and opened it reverently. "Feast your eyes on the most exquisite liquor collection outside of Paris."

"Are we….umm…allowed to drink this?" inquired Charlotte nervously.

Porthos gave her a reproachful look. "Charlotte, Captain Treville's instructions to us were explicit. We have the entire chateau and its grounds at our disposal. The King has decreed that we may use **any** available resource to keep our visitors entertained. Hence—" His eyes roved over the bottles, then rested on one. He cocked an eyebrow at Athos. "May I consult with you for a moment, my friend?"

Athos stepped to his side, and gravely inspected the dusty bottle that was tenderly placed in his hands for inspection. "Very nice." His voice was calm, but Porthos easily picked up on the gleam in the elder man's eye that appeared whenever a particularly choice wine was made available for consumption. "I will procure the glasses while you open that vessel of ambrosial delights."

Moments later, he had ten glasses arrayed on a tray. While he poured, Porthos arranged a group of chairs around the two _chaise longues_, so that the invalids could be an integral part of the circle. Charlotte went around the circle, handing out the glasses. Tamara had slipped in, and stood against the wall, quietly observing the activity. Aramis caught her eye. "I don't believe we have been introduced."

"My name is Tamara Enriquez," she answered shyly. "I am Andrés' sister."

"Well, Andrés' lovely sister, you must join our merry group. Annette, Denise, and Charlotte cannot be the only women competing. The presence of the fairer sex will certainly add a more intriguing element to the game, after all."

"I don't think we've ever played with women," muttered Porthos. "Someone may have to muzzle Aramis if he gets too out of control."

"I'll keep an eye on him," offered Prince Radziwill. "Perhaps he will be more amenable to instructions from a stranger."

Athos looked at Porthos, who shrugged. "It's worth a try."

Five minutes later, they were seated in a circle. Aramis reclined on his daybed, with Prince Radziwill to his left and Porthos to his right. Denise was next to Porthos, and Charlotte leaned over to whisper in her ear, giggling conspiratorially. Athos had Charlotte's hand in his, and he was seated next to Tamara, who was by the side of her brother. Annette was stationed on the other side of Andrés, next to the Polish falconer.

"Porthos, do you care to explain the rules?" inquired Aramis.

"For those of you who have never played, the object is to get to know your companions better. We musketeers have whiled away many a dull evening at the garrison playing. Since Aramis is so game to play, he will start. For example, he might say, "Never have I ever met a Musketeer." Anyone in the company who has met a Musketeer will have to drink from their glass."

"PLEASE tell me Aramis' wine is watered down," begged Athos.

"Athos, really?" Charlotte rolled her eyes at him. "It would be entirely irresponsible of me to allow him to drink anything straight at this point bottle. He is loopy enough as it is."

Aramis was oblivious to her words, currently being engaged in singing a children's song that Charlotte had never heard. However, it seemed to be an interesting tale about a rabbit that married a donkey after losing a rather preposterous bet with said donkey about how far he could jump with his feet tied together.

"Just gag him now," muttered Athos.

"Don't be such a spoilsport!" chided Charlotte. "Aren't you excited about the prospect of getting to know your friends….and your wife…a little bit better?"

"I already know all I need to know about you," replied Athos darkly.

"Ah, that's where you are wrong, my husband." Charlotte smiled at him sweetly. "You have just begun to plumb the depths of my personality. And I guarantee that by the end of this game, I will have learned something new about you."

"Athos! Charlotte! Enough cooing like newlyweds," called out Aramis merrily. "It is time to get down to business….and to expose the deepest, darkest secrets of our friends, in order to embarrass them mightily. As Porthos noted, as I am one of the invalids in need of entertainment, I will go first. Andres, my brother in bandages, will go second." He sat up a bit and waved cheerily to the Spanish falconer, who returned his salute.

"Leave your egos and your pride at the door, ladies and gentlemen," intoned Aramis dramatically. "The game is about to begin."

After a moment's thought, he smirked, then leaned back in his chair, gingerly crossing his arms behind his head.

"Never have I ever…been told I am beautiful."

The Dutch Viscount promptly drank, causing Porthos to bark with laughter.

"Can I help it if women adore me?" he responded with a cheeky smile.

Aramis drank from his cup, followed by Charlotte, Annette, Denise and Tamara.

"Athos, I don't see you drink-ing!" chanted Aramis in a singsongy voice.

"That's because it- doesn't ap-ply," answered Athos in the same melodious tone.

"Really?" Aramis grinned and glanced at Porthos. "I seem to remember a certain night in Avignon…"

"Enough!" Athos tipped back his glass and drank, then glared at Aramis. "Are you satisfied now?"

"I believe so," came the blithe answer. "Over to you, Andrés."

The Spanish falconer furrowed his brow in thought, then said, "Never have I ever... been to the theatre."

Aramis and Tamara raised their glasses in tandem, saluted each other, then drank.

"This is really an extremely tame round." Milady's silky voice came from behind them. "Come now, for it to be **anywhere** near entertaining, you have to be a little more daring."

* * *

**Things may get more interesting now...any questions you'd like to see asked? I'm open to suggestions...**


	21. Chapter 21

_"Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth."_

Marcus Aurelius

* * *

**CHAPTER XXI**

"I have to agree." At the sound of the King's voice, everyone present stood up at once.

Louis waved his hand and smiled benevolently. "You may all be seated. I have a very sincere desire to be part of the fun…it has been ever so long since I have played any type of parlor game. Blame** this** beautiful creature."

The King beamed at Milady, prompting her to slant her green eyes up at him through her long, dark eyelashes. She moved a fraction closer, allowing her to nestle her compact body against his shoulder. "Yes, Milady is so captivating that I very selfishly kept her all to myself during the first part of our stay. But this afternoon, I want be entertained, and to enjoy the warmth of fellowship with my guests. Who would like the honor of setting up chairs for his King and the lovely Milady de Winter?"

Porthos stifled a groan and got up quickly, a smile pasted onto his face. "Allow me, Your Majesty." The Viscount jumped up to assist him, and the monarch and his mistress soon were comfortably ensconced in two very regal armchairs.

Louis looked around the circle and giggled. "Don't mind me…continue on as you were. I'd like to observe the players for a bit before I ask any questions."

"A wise decision, Sire," murmured Milady, her voice full of admiration. "You are **always** so thoughtful. It is easy to see why the people love you so."

Charlotte bit her tongue in order to resist the temptation to roll her eyes. _How in the world was Athos ever married to this woman? It beggars all belief!_

As if reading her thoughts, Athos leaned over and whispered,"I plead temporary insanity. It is the only explanation I can live with."

"I believe you should go next, Charlotte," said Aramis, giving her a mischievous smile. "Ten points to you if you get Athos to drink!" Although he was attempting to be discreet, he whispered so loudly that the entire room heard him.

"Hmmm…" Charlotte glanced at her husband, and murmured under her breath, "How much is it worth to you to have me deflect attention away from you right now?"

"That would be…priceless," he muttered, giving her his most irresistible smile, his blue eyes glowing with warmth at her kind gesture.

"I thought so," she replied in a low voice, then confidently turned to the rest of the group. "Never have I ever flirted with my medical attendant while under the influence of painkillers."

She sat back in her chair and smiled sweetly at Athos, who narrowed his eyes at her as he drank a gulp of his wine.

"Porthos, raise your glass," commanded the Comte de la Fère imperiously.

"What for?" demanded Porthos, bewildered. "I've never flirted with Charlotte!"

"No..but perhaps with Aramis?" inquired Athos, smirking. Some titters spread through the group.

The big man rolled his eyes. "That stopped being fun about four and a half years ago…Aramis** never** gets my double-entendres."

"I am not asking if it is fun for you," rejoined the elder man, a stern expression on his face. "I am asking if you have ever done such a thing."

Gritting his teeth, Porthos grudgingly raised his glass. "Guilty as charged," and took a swig, winking at the marksman. "But some advice, Aramis—next time, just play along...even if you don't understand the references."

Aramis studiously ignored his comrade, as he was busy singing "Frere Jacques" to himself.

Sighing, Porthos looked at Denise. "I suggest you go. We need a breath of fresh air here."

"Very well." She furrowed her brow in thought. "Hmm…never have I ever taken an animal with me to church."

"Are we speaking of animals in the true sense of the word?" asked Aramis brightly. "Or are we speaking of the human sort of animal? Rochefort isn't here, is he?" he asked, blinking as he tried to focus on the faces around the circle.

Denise giggled. "The animal sort." She then drank out of her glass, as did Prince Radziwill.

"Oh, we must have explanations!" exclaimed the King. "The idea is just so comical!"

The pretty seamstress' face flushed. "Well, my young daughter has a rabbit she is very fond of, and she smuggled it into church last Christmas Eve. It was quite the hit with the congregation."

Milady gave her a cold glance. "Country people are **so** easily amused."

The Prince, sensing Denise's discomfort, spoke up. "Well, my falcon goes everywhere with me. She is a fixture in my parish church."

"Let me ask you something," murmured the Viscount. "Are you married?"

"Not yet," replied the Prince defensively. "But it is just a matter of time."

"A word of advice, my friend," observed Andrés with a smile, reaching for Annette's hand. "You may want to leave the bird of prey behind when you are wooing your sweetheart. Porthos, your turn."

The musketeer tapped his glass thoughtfully, then brightened noticeably. "Never have I ever adopted a disguise as a portly matron in order to enchant-and subsequently arrest-a Spanish merchant selling goods on the black market."

Athos buried his face in his hands. "God, why me?" he muttered. Taking in a deep breath, he said in a distinct, clear voice, "No details will be forthcoming, so do not even deign to ask. But yes, it happened in Avignon." He took a swig of wine as general laughter erupted, then set down his glass, glowering at Porthos. "Just so you know, you are a dead man," he murmured. "Viscount, I think you should go next. We need to break this pattern of **very thinly** disguised personal attacks."

"I am happy to oblige," replied the Dutchman, offering a gracious smile. "Let me see…never have I ever eaten pickled herring…on a beach…after dark."

"I thought we were done with targeted attacks!" protested Prince Radziwill. "I told you a story in confidence, and you filed it away in your brain to use to your own personal advantage!"

The Viscount began to laugh hysterically. **"How** is a story about a family trip to the Baltic Sea when you were** five** a state secret? "

He received a glare in return. "See if I ever open my heart to you again." The Prince drank, then looked around the circle. "Who hasn't gone yet? Doña Enriquez, are you up to the task?"

"Certainly," she answered without hesitation, and immediately launched into her question. "Never have I ever kissed someone I didn't like."

Aramis promptly drank. "All in the line of duty-for France, of course," he noted with a grin. Porthos and all three falconers raised their goblets in unison. In the meantime, Milady's alluring green eyes flicked over to Athos' face for just an instant. She lifted her glass to her lips, then drank, conspicuously avoiding his gaze. He followed suit. "Your turn, Athos!" called out Aramis merrily.

He thought for a moment, then said slowly, "Never have I ever done something in haste that I have regretted for the rest of my life." Before anyone could react, he drank his entire glass in one go, then reached for the bottle closest to him. An awkward silence descended upon the group, and Tamara impulsively called out, "My turn! Never have I ever broken a piñata."

She saluted her brother and sister-in-law, then acknowledged Aramis, who had also raised his glass.

After they drank, the King spoke up. "I believe Milady is quite anxious to join in—aren't you, my dear? I sense your anticipation has been growing during the last several rounds."

"Once again, you can read me like a book," she answered him, blushing prettily on cue. "You do me a great honor, Your Majesty."

"It is nothing you haven't earned with your hard work over the past twenty four hours," he murmured, kissing her hand lingeringly. "You have been quite a saucy little diversion."

Porthos caught Athos' eye for just an instant, and he shook his head slightly.

Milady, meanwhile, pouted her full lips, arching an eyebrow at the King as she pondered her next move. "I have one. Never have I ever been in love with another man's wife. Ah, If only d'Artagnan were here." She put her hand over her heart and sighed tragically. "How I hope that missing little Gascon is found safe and sound."

She looked around the circle, her eyes bright with anticipation. "Why so shy, my brave men? I cannot help but think that there are quite a few of you that should be raising their glasses right about now. But perhaps that is the problem…maybe I need to make the question a little more—individual, shall we say. Athos, you look particularly wistful, but I may have a question that will strike a chord with you-or perhaps someone close to you." Pausing for a few moments, she stared at her ex-husband, her eyes cold with hate. "Never have I ever sentenced someone I loved to death. No, wait, let me be a bit more specific….Never have I ever sentenced someone I loved to die for a crime that he or she did not commit."

* * *

**That turned from fun to dark very quickly...thank you for continuing to read along! Let me know what you thought if you have a moment..**


	22. Chapter 22

_"To dare is to lose one's footing momentarily. Not to dare is to lose oneself."_

_Soren Kierkegaard_

* * *

**CHAPTER XXII**

An awkward silence fell over the group, but was soon broken by the King's high-pitched laugh. He was well into his second glass of wine, and appeared to have been already comfortably tipsy when he entered the room.

Wagging his finger at Milady, he said with a wink, "My dear, if this is your attempt to get me drunk so you can have your way with me, it won't work. Yes, I admit I sentenced my mother to death if she ever returned to France….and **technically** she did not take the throne from me, so perhaps she did not **exactly** commit the crime, but the intent was there. As a consequence, I rule that I do not have to drink…and as I **am** currently King, there ends the matter. In any case, I am feeling the need for some privacy at the moment. Come, my delicious little distraction."

As the King took her by the hand, Milady arose from her chair with all the elegance and grace that she was capable of, and gave Charlotte a cold stare as she was led from the room.

Once they had gone, a general sigh of relief went up from the circle.

"BORED NOW!" called out Aramis, making hand shadow puppets on the wall as the afternoon light began to wane and the room turned dark. "We need a new game. I know—Truth or Dare!"

"Aramis, this is a very bad idea." Athos' voice was soft and coaxing. "Why play that when we could play something so much more relaxing and fun…how about a nice game of bingo? Or Go Fish?"

"Truth or Dare! Truth or Dare!" chanted Aramis. Turning to the crowd, he urged them on, his voice rising in excitement. "Show me some support, people! Who wants a chance to get to know their friends better—and to potentially embarrass them to death? ALL IN FAVOR?"

A general "AYE" rang out, with Athos being the sole abstainer.

"I am SO going to love this," whispered Charlotte with a smile, gently turning Athos' face to her so she could give him a kiss on the cheek.

He raised an eyebrow at her, then leaned over to brush his lips against her hairline. "You do realize you are will already be paying me a handsome forfeit tonight based on your mischief earlier, don't you?"

"Says who?" she murmured, giving him a challenging look.

Moving closer to her ear, he breathed in a tone barely above a whisper, "Your lord and master. And don't tell me you're not looking forward to seeing how inventive I can be."

"Is that a threat, or a promise?" she replied sweetly, winding her fingers into the folds of his leather and drawing him closer.

"You will just have to wait and see," he muttered, drawing back just enough to fix his charismatic gaze on her face, his eyes crinkling in amusement.

"I **hate it** when you do that!"

"Do what?"

"**Don't** play the innocent with me...you know **exactly** what I mean! **Everything** you are doing right now...the eyes, that little quirk of a smile, the voice...it's all carefully calculated to make me fall under your spell."

His response came in the low and seductive register that she was referring to. "And despite your protests, you absolutely love it. I can tell, because you are doing that thing with your…"

"ATHOS AND CHARLOTTE! If you two don't stop making eyes at each other THIS INSTANT, I WILL separate you!" Aramis' voice made it clear that his patience was waning. "Porthos, you are first up. Truth or Dare, my friend?"

Porthos gave his comrade a measured look, trying to gauge Aramis' mood before answering.

"Dare."

"Very well," Aramis responded cheerily. "I dare you to have an intense conversation for 60 seconds with an inanimate object in which you tell it why you love it so much—and please be descriptive, as a lover would."

"Challenge accepted." Porthos whipped out his bandana and smoothed it in his lap, then placed it in the palm of his hand.

Regarding the black cloth with adoration, he began to stroke it gently, as one would a sweetheart's hair. "I still remember the first time I laid eyes on you." His voice, full of emotion, quavered for an instant. "It was…love at first sight…at least, for me it was."

Aramis burst out laughing, and Porthos glared at him, then slid his eyes back to the piece of fabric he had addressed in such a tender manner. "Just ignore him. He doesn't understand you the way I do-he **couldn't possibly**, even after all we have been through together. It seems like just yesterday when Captain Treville allowed the two of us into his secret accessories cabinet so that we could pick out that special something which would make our uniforms unique."

He paused for a moment, then continued. "The Captain doesn't let **just anyone** choose from his personal collection, you see—only the best recruits. Aramis, predictable as usual," he stopped to raise an eyebrow knowingly at his friend," went for the flashy blue sash. I'm….I'm just not superficial like that…never have been. Beauty is not the most important thing in a long-term relationship, after all….loyalty and mutual respect are. When I saw you lying on that blue velvet cushion, you looked…so dependable, so loyal. I somehow knew that I would always be able to count on you…to protect me from the sun, to wipe away blood from my brothers' wounds, and just to…be there for me when I needed you. I love you with all my heart, and I always will."

Bending over, he touched his lips to the fabric, then winked at Denise, whose face was flushed with laughter.

"Well done!" cried out the Viscount, applauding his new friend. "Most men could not make a speech that heartfelt to a woman, let alone a bandana."

Porthos smirked and raised his glass to Aramis. "Cheers!" In response, the marksman gave him a round of grudging applause. "I personally think that you could have been a bit more charismatic, but then again, you don't quite have the flair for poetry that I do, so I suppose I shouldn't be too critical. Time to swing the spotlight on to the lovely lady next to you. Denise, what will it be? Truth or dare?"

Denise, feeling younger than she had in a long time, glanced at Porthos, her eyes sparkling. "Dare."

Aramis regarded her thoughtfully. "Very well. I dare you to spend the rest of the game sitting on Porthos' lap…and no stiff formality…I want to see some snuggling." He folded his arms behind his head and grinned.

The pretty seamstress' face turned crimson.

_She obviously didn't see** that** coming,_ thought Charlotte.

Porthos leaned over to Denise. "We can pull it off," he murmured. "Don't worry. I'll be a perfect gentleman." He held out his hand. and she placed her small fingers in his, allowing him to guide her onto his lap. When she was comfortably seated, he rested his hands lightly on her waist, then put his chin on her shoulder. In a low whisper, he said, "I must admit this will probably be the highlight of the visit for me."

"Really?" She gave him a demure look, then craned her neck slightly to peer up at him. "Monsieur Porthos…if I didn't know better, I'd think you were flirting with me."

He shook his head. "Me? Nah, I'd be much more direct if that were the case. I'd probably do something like put my arms around you…here, just for illustrative purposes, I'll show you…." He settled her against his muscled chest, then wrapped his strong arms around her waist.

"And then when no one was watching," he muttered, "I might just kiss your neck..very slowly, but very thoroughly. But to be successful, I'd have to have already relaxed you enough to trust me."

Denise felt a small thrill run through her body at his words. It had been so long since she had felt like a woman—not just a mother or a workhorse. But this man was so kind and caring, so sensual and magnetic, that he had awakened a longing in her that she had thought had died along with Alain.

"I daresay I feel very...relaxed already," she murmured, leaning her head against his as they watched Aramis move on to his next victim.

"Charlotte, truth or dare?"

"Truth," she replied confidently.

"What is the most ridiculous argument you have ever had with Athos?"

"Ridiculous as far as the topic, or as far as Athos' opinion? Or both?" She offered her husband a sweet smile.

"Let's say—both."

Her hazel eyes fixed on Athos' blue ones, and she began to laugh as he slowly shook his head.

Teeth clenched, he muttered, "I know **exactly** what you are thinking, and until the day I die, I will maintain that the correct answer is grapefruit."

"The argument was about fruit," she announced in a loud, clear voice. "Specifically, if fruit were sentient beings and could fight, who would win? Athos argued grapefruit, which is **clearly** so wrong." Her tone was clearly designed to provoke her husband, who immediately leapt for the bait.

"My lovely wife is of the opinion that apples would be the warrior kings of the fruit world, but I am sure that you all can see the flaws in that claim. First of all, a grapefruit has built-in armor, and has a bulk to rival that of Porthos when compared to other fruit. A grapefruit assassin would stalk his victims as night, noiselessly rolling down the streets of Paris, and would be a natural born killer."

Charlotte's response was immediate, the fierceness of her retort striking Porthos as comical. "First of all, a grapefruit would have serious issues navigating the cobblestones of a Paris street…" The big man began to chuckle, his chest vibrating with laughter. His merriment was infectious, and Denise began to giggle along with him. Soon, the entire group was in stitches, while Athos and Charlotte continued to debate the matter furiously, oblivious to the laughter surrounding them.

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Rochefort leaned back in his chair, boots casually crossed on the low ottoman in front of the large stone fireplace. He tossed back the last of his brandy, then stared moodily into the fire.

In his experience, it was never quite predictable how humans would respond to the elixir that Milady had procured from an apothecary in Nantes. The blend of hallucinogenic mushrooms that was contained within varied from batch to batch, and Rochefort had seen widely varying reactions, from giggling euphoria to the most belligerent paranoia imaginable. He had no intention of using d'Artagnan for the purpose he had in mind until he had determined how suggestible and aggressive the Gascon would be once under the influence.

A frantic knocking was suddenly heard on the door that led to the cellar.

"Enter!" called out Rochefort. Georges, the somewhat simple, yet obedient, young man that he had hired several months ago, practically fell into the room. His face was a mass of bruises, and one eye was nearly swollen shut.

"Must you be so dramatic?" drawled the Comte, as the young man sprawled on the floor, gasping for breath. "All I require is a report, not theatrics. How did our young Gascon fare?"

"He was—absolutely—out of control," stammered Georges. "At the merest suggestion that someone here in the chateau might have been responsible for his father's death, he completely lost it."

"Perfect," muttered Rochefort, a thin smile tugging at his lips. "I could not have hoped for a better outcome. You are dismissed…and please try not to bleed on the carpet on your way out."

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**A huge thank you for your continued reviews and comments! Any idea what Rochefort has in mind for d'Artagnan?**


	23. Chapter 23

_"Envy comes from people's ignorance of, or lack of belief in, their own gifts."_

Jean Vanier

* * *

**CHAPTER XXIII**

Much to everyone's amusement, Aramis had fallen asleep during Charlotte and Athos' protracted debate over which fruit would have an edge in various combat situations. The rest of the group gradually drifted off to various corners of the room. Tamara curled up in a chair with a book, a dreamy smile on her face. She now sported an intricately braided hairstyle courtesy of Aramis, who had accepted the dare she had given him to provide her with a fashionable coiffure suitable for a ball.

"I had no idea Aramis had such a talent for hairdressing," commented Athos. They had agreed to call their debate a draw, and were now comfortably settled on a couch. The musketeer had developed a headache, and was lying with his head pillowed in Charlotte's lap. His eyes were closed, and she gently stroked his hair as she queried him about his symptoms.

"Is the pain sharp or dull?"

"It just hurts," murmured Athos, his response a trifle irritable. "Do I need to be more specific?"

"You do if you want your very clever wife/apothecary to give you the correct remedy."

"I am sure that if we just go back to our room and slip into bed, I will feel better shortly."

She laughed softly. "You may have something there. I have had some patients—both male and female—tell me that intimacy can improve headaches."

Athos opened one eye, squinting at her. "I was joking, but if there is something to what you say, I suggest we adjourn to our quarters immediately."

"Not so fast," she murmured, gently closing his eye with her fingers. "Let me try massaging your temples first…it used to work when my father had terrible headaches." Even with his eyes closed, Athos heard the subtle change in her voice upon the mention of her father, and his heart ached for his wife. Charlotte had had little time to grieve her father's death, for she and Athos had been immediately imprisoned in the Chatelet on suspicion of having murdered Bertrand.

As she moved her fingers to his forehead, he caught one of her hands and kissed it.

"Your father was very proud of you—I could tell. He loved you very much."

"I know," she replied, the words mechanical. She attempted to withdraw her hand, but failed when he tightened his grip.

"Do you?" he said softly, forcing his eyes to face the light in order to search her face. "Because I cannot help but feel that it is my fault that you were on bad terms with him when he died. If I had never been shot, you would have never met me, and would still be doing the work you were born to do by the side of the father whom you loved. You would have no regrets."

"Athos," she whispered softly. "There is no such thing as life without regrets. We are human beings, and as such, cannot expect our lives—or our choices—to be perfect. Do I regret my father was still upset with me when he died? Yes, but there is nothing I can do to change that. But I am absolutely certain that if he had lived, he would have changed his opinion of you once he had gotten to know you better. There is nothing my father admired more than honesty and courage. And you, my love, have both in spades. I regret **nothing** where you are concerned…except perhaps for the lack of time we have had to ourselves since our wedding."

He sighed and released her hand, relaxing as she began to massage his temples. "Believe me, there is nothing I would like more than to spirit you away from here for a week or two…far away from the King... from uniforms and duty... from everyone we know."

"And where would we go?" she asked, her tone barely above a whisper.

"There is a small hunting lodge that my father kept in the one of the forests north of our chateau. It is not a grand house, but one I always loved as a boy. It somehow seemed cosier and more informal. It sits on the bank of a stream that is always teeming with fish. From the time I was five years old, I would go fishing with my father nearly every day we were there—if the weather was fine." He chuckled. "I would come home covered in mud, proudly dangling the trout I had caught all by myself after a prolonged, heroic struggle-with just a **little** help from my father."

"So even then you were a teller of tall tales." He could hear the smile in her voice.

"Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I embellished the details a bit." He opened one eye slightly to wink at her. "Then we would bathe while the cook did something amazing with the fish...it was never the same dish twice, but it was always delicious. After dinner, I would stretch out on the bearskin rug in front of the massive stone fireplace and play chess with Thomas until we both were nearly asleep."

"It sounds lovely," Charlotte commented, relieved to see the traces of pain disappearing from his face. "So your relationship with your father was not always strained?"

She immediately regretted mentioning Sebastian, for she felt Athos tense under her fingers. "No, not always," he answered neutrally, then fell silent.

Glancing up, Charlotte saw that only two other people remained in the room. Andrés had fallen asleep in his _chaise longue_, and Annette sat by his side, knitting a pair of mittens that were a rosy pink. She assumed they must be intended for Catalina. When Annette's eyes met hers, Charlotte smiled, glad to see that the anxiety on the woman's face had lessened a bit. Aramis was doing well enough that he had been helped to his room for the night, with some assistance from Porthos.

Annette rose and came over to her. "Is Olivier—I mean, Athos-asleep?" she whispered.

"He is **not**," drawled Athos somewhat sleepily.

"Well, I was wondering if you might like to come and meet Catalina in a little more—informal setting."

Athos' blue eyes suddenly were alert, and his expression became slightly guarded.

"Do you think…I mean, how…"

"Catalina has heard me tell stories of you, and she knows you were a dear friend to me. As does Andrés," she said steadily.

_A casual observer would never know they were once lovers_, Charlotte reassured herself. But while she wanted desperately to believe this, she found herself analyzing every word and glance that Annette and Athos shared. When Athos' eyes met Annette's for just an instant, she sensed that an unspoken question had been asked and answered, and the intimacy of that moment made her throat constrict.

"Go ahead," she heard herself say in an encouraging voice. "I can sit with Andrés."

"There is no need," replied Annette quietly. "Catalina is staying with Tamara in a room just down the hall. We will be but a moment, and I will easily hear him if he calls for me. You look like you could use a cup of tea, Charlotte. I believe Denise and Porthos headed for the kitchen. Why don't you join them? I'll send Athos to you just as soon as we are done."

"Very well." Charlotte forced a smile onto her face, and kissed Athos lightly on the cheek. "I'll see you shortly."

Athos caught her hand. "You may come if you'd like." His gaze shifted slightly to Annette once again.

"That is not necessary," his wife answered, squeezing his hand slightly. "You two should—do this together. It is only right." As she left the room in haste, she wondered how the words had come out of her mouth. Entering into the cold air of the corridor, she felt guilt-stricken. Despite her best attempts to keep her feelings at bay, she was jealous of Athos' bond with Annette. But why?

Charlotte had enough sense to recognize that her thoughts were not at all rational. There was no doubt that Athos and Annette had no intention of rekindling their romance. Each had moved on, and out of despair and heartbreak, had somehow managed to find love again. What had happened should not matter to her…but it did. More disturbingly, she felt envy beginning to clamor for her attention.

_Catalina was Athos' first child, and as her mother, Annette will always have a place in his heart that I cannot. For all I know, I might be barren. My mother only was ever able to have one child—me-and she was strong and healthy until right before she died. What if I never have a child? Or die during childbirth? _

All of a sudden, she felt overwhelmed by Athos' past. _**Why** does it have to be like this? Not only does he have an ex-wife who haunts our every step, but he also had a child with another woman whom he loved, and who was torn from him against his will. Why does the kindest, most noble man I have ever met have to have such a complicated history?_

Suddenly, the words she had uttered moments ago came back to her. _We are human beings, and as such, cannot expect our lives—or our choices—to be perfect._ As she heard the door to the library open, she pressed herself into a curtained alcove, and listened as Athos and Annette passed by, voices low in conversation. As their words died away, she thought, _I can sit here and feel sorry for myself, or I can go downstairs and have a cup of tea with Porthos and Denise_. Taking a deep breath, she headed in the opposite direction, longing for the cousin's gentle manner.

The hall was empty for several minutes, but then a pair of dainty blue high-heel shoes stepped onto the luxurious carpeting. With assurance and grace, a slender woman made her way to the library doors. With one elegant, fluid motion, she opened the door and entered the room. Dusk had fallen, and she noted with satisfaction that the Spanish falconer was alone, and appeared to be asleep Her eyes roamed the room, looking for a method to employ in order to awaken him. Sighting several leather-backed novels lying on a shelf, she picked them up, then deliberately dropped one on the floor.

Andrés awoke with a start.

"I'm so sorry," she stammered. "I am **so** clumsy sometimes." Andrés, his eyes still blurry with sleep, focused on the lovely woman in front of him.

"Milady de Winter." His voice still hoarse, he struggled to sit up.

"Please, don't tire yourself on my account," she pleaded. "May I get you anything? I feel terrible to have woken you up out of a sound sleep."

"Actually, a glass of water would be much appreciated," he murmured, leaning back against the pillows.

"It would be my pleasure," she replied with a smile. A moment later, she seated herself in the chair next to his daybed. "I see your wife has left for a moment. May I help you sit up?" Without waiting for a response, she slid her arm behind his back and eased him forward, raising the glass to his lips. He drank gratefully, then settled back on the pillows.

"Thank you. Your kindness is much appreciated. I am sure Annette has just gone to rest for a moment. She is still in the early stages of pregnancy, and she tires easily. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course." Milady's green eyes filled with sympathy. "I suppose this pregnancy must a bit more challenging for your wife…after all, this time she has a small child to run after. I am guessing that you spoiled her as much as she let you when she was pregnant with your first."

"You are correct," Andrés said, his eyes lighting up at the memory. "We had precious little time together by ourselves. Our marriage was essentially arranged, and she fell pregnant on our wedding night."

"Really? Why, it's like a fairy tale! You seem very much in love. How lucky you are!"

"So it seems," replied Andrés. "I am sure this baby will be a boy. After all, God has blessed us with everything else we could possibly desire."

"So true," murmured Milady reflectively. "Your wife is a gracious-and striking-woman. It is so rare to see someone with two eyes that are completely different in color. I passed your daughter in the hall earlier…she has the loveliest blue eyes."

Andrés smiled proudly. "Yes, they are beautiful. A bit different from her mother's, but as she is a blend of both of us, I suppose that is to be expected."

"Of course. That particular shade of blue is so unusual though…I could not help but notice how similar it was to the eyes of that rather handsome musketeer. I believe his name is Athos?"

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**Never let it be said that Milady is not an expert at stirring the pot. It remains to be seen if she will succeed in raising doubts in Andrés' mind...**


	24. Chapter 24

"Isn't it the moment of most profound doubt that gives birth to new certainties? Perhaps hopelessness is the very soil that nourishes human hope; perhaps one could never find sense in life without first experiencing its absurdity."

**Vaclav Havel**

* * *

**CHAPTER XXIV**

"And I believe you were married to him, once upon a time?" Andres' eyes were neutral, but Milady detected a hint of steel behind his expression.

"Full marks to you. You have done your homework." Her voice took on a cooler, more forthright tone. "But are you aware that your wife and my ex-husband were close once? Some say they were in love."

"And are** you** aware of what you are implying?" The falconer's steady gaze was meant to intimidate her, but Milady did not flinch.

"No disrespect intended, of course. It was merely an observation. I will wish you good night."

As she stood up and prepared to take her leave, she caught a glimpse of his face as he allowed his guard to drop, thinking that her back was already turned. A small thrill of satisfaction ran through her when she saw a trace of doubt in his eyes. _It was only there for an instant, but a seed has been planted. It is a start._

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Denise and Porthos had wandered down to the kitchen, and were greeted pleasantly by the head cook, Madame Martine. She had just been about to quit the kitchen for the evening, but took a few moments to set up a simple tea service for them.

"There's a small sitting room off to the left. Feel free to make yourselves comfortable in there."

They thanked her, then Denise poured the water from the kettle into the teapot. Porthos pulled up a stool and sat next to her. She glanced at him and smiled, glad of a chance to have a few minutes to spend with a man who occupied her thoughts more frequently of late. "This feels very domestic, doesn't it?"

Porthos chuckled. "Indeed. Not somethin' I do on a regular basis, that's for sure." His expression became a bit wistful. "Not that I wouldn't like to. I mean, I love my life as a musketeer—can't imagine doin' anythin' else, really- but sometimes it just feels like it…lacks a bit of balance. Not sure I'm makin' any sense."

"I believe you are making perfect sense." Denise's grey eyes became thoughtful. "I think that everyone deep down wants to have a comfortable, familiar place—or person—they can retreat to when they need to shed their everyday persona and just-be. Look at Athos. I get the impression the rest of you thought he'd live the rest of his life alone…that he didn't need affection, or love—but when Charlotte came along, he realized that he did—and that he was ready." She blushed. "Now I'm babbling."

"No, you have a point. Sometimes I wonder, though, if it is harder or easier for someone who never had a normal family life to know what that should look like…and to recognize when they have a chance of achieving it."

"Are you speaking of "someone" as in yourself, or just speaking in general?" Denise had consciously offered him a chance to open up to her if he felt comfortable doing so. She knew from what little Charlotte had told her that Porthos had essentially grown up on the streets after his mother had died when he was a small child. _It is remarkable,_ she thought, _what a kind and generous person he is, having come from that sort of environment._

"Well, I suppose it's the former," he admitted. "I never knew my father….he left my mother after she became pregnant. She had to work herself to the bone to support the two of us—she was amazin', really. The more I think about it, the more I realize how incredibly stressful life must have been for her. But I really had no idea. Even though we had a dirt floor and slept huddled together on a thin straw pallet, our little hovel was home to me-a home full of love and laughter. At least until my mum died when I was five." He cleared his throat, and looked across the room, fixing his eyes on the fire that had begun to die in the hearth.

"Then I think you will have no problem either recognizing or achieving what you desire as far as a home and family," murmured Denise. "Those kind of happy memories are wired into your brain, and I have no doubt that is part of why you are such a…" Suddenly becoming embarrassed, she heard her voice trail off.

"Don't stop now," pleaded Porthos with a smirk, lifting her chin gently with his finger. "You were just about to get to the good part."

"Oh, is that what you think?" replied Denise teasingly, quickly recovering.

"Am I wrong?" The look he gave her was obviously a challenge, although it was infused with a heavy dose of flirtation.

"Well—no," she admitted, blushing slightly.

"So tell me," he said, his voice soft. "It has been a long time."

All of a sudden, Denise saw not a genial, burly Musketeer in front of her, but a small boy in ragged clothing, grieving over the body of his dead mother._ He speaks the truth. I doubt that he has had anyone tell him how wonderfully unique he is in a long, long time._

Porthos noticed the shadow pass over her face, and straightened up. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be inappropriate."

"No!" She was surprised how adamant her voice sounded. "You weren't! Not at all! I was just thinking….how lonely it must have been for you. And how difficult. Many men—especially those who have to battle against the additional prejudice against the color of their skin- would have allowed the darkness to engulf them…but you are so—different."

She took in a small breath, willing herself to continue speaking. "Porthos, you rose above a challenging childhood to become one of the gentlest, kindest, bravest men I have ever had the privilege to know—and against all odds, you secured a position in the most prestigious regiment in the land. I find all that….amazing."

Denise felt heat rush into her face, and turned to fumble with the teapot. The thoughts she had just verbalized had flitted through her mind numerous times, but to speak them aloud had made her vulnerable. _What if he thinks I am ridiculous? To be pitied? A simple country widow gushing over a handsome soldier in an elite unit?_

"How do you take your tea?" she said, realizing that her voice had been louder than she had intended. "Milk? Sugar?"

"Straight."

"So like a musketeer," she said brightly, still feeling self-conscious. "Pure strength—no light or sweetness for you."

He stood up then, towering over her by a foot or so. Placing his large hands gently on her waist, he turned her to face him. "That's not true," he murmured. "I very much desire light and sweetness in my life." Leaning forward, he lowered his forehead to touch hers. "You have brought a bit of both to me these last few weeks, and no matter what happens in the future, I will always be grateful for your friendship."

Tilting her head back slightly, Denise saw the sincerity in his dark brown eyes, and felt her heart begin to pound. "I owe you much as well. I had forgotten what it was like to be something other than a mother or a busy seamstress. You companionship has greatly…"

She became aware that he had lowered his mouth to hers, then halted for just a brief instant, giving her a chance to pull away if she chose. _He is as nervous as I am_, she thought wonderingly. With that, her anxiety dissolved, and her lips covered the small space between them to touch his just for an instant.

His response was slow, but sure, and she found herself melting into his arms. Within a minute, he picked her up carefully and sat her on the edge of the large table in the kitchen. "What that enough sweetness for you?" she inquired shyly.

"Hmmm...I think not," muttered Porthos, closing the distance between them and more thoroughly exploring her mouth with a confidence that made her almost dizzy. She had long imagined that her first kiss since Alain would have been tinged with regrets and guilt. _However, she was shocked to find out that it was not-quite the opposite. Could it be that I am finally ready to move on?_

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As Athos walked down the hall, a half step behind Annette, his stomach was churning, and he felt as if every nerve in his body was on edge. He had dreamed of this moment many a time, but now that it had come, he was afraid.

_Afraid of what? She is just a little girl. You will be introduced as an old friend of her mother's, pleasantries will be exchanged, and that will be that._

But the fear was palpable. Fear of seeing disinterest on her face. Fear of seeing curiosity on her face. Fear of feeling nothing when he saw her. Fear of feeling too much when he saw her.

When they reached the door, he stayed Annette by grasping her arm firmly. "I need a moment." She looked up at him, trying to hide her disappointment, but not entirely succeeding.

"I thought this might happen," she said, her voice full of regret. "It is too much, too soon. I should not have suggested it. After all, you are on a mission for the King. And you are a still newlywed…it will cause problems between you and Charlotte—stress that you do not need in the early days of your marriage…it.."

"This is not a **problem** for Charlotte," he muttered, his breath misting slightly in the chill air of the corridor."

_Somehow I doubt that is entirely true,_ thought Annette ruefully. "Well, what** is** the problem then? If you think I have brought you here to make you feel guilty…to make you suffer-that is not the case at all."

Athos' eyes blazed for an instant, then dulled with pain.. "I know that, but how can I **help** but feel guilty? How can I have any claim at all on her? I have had nothing to do with her since I impregnated you, and I will carry that shame with me until the day I die."

"What that** your** choice?" The anger in her voice caught him by surprise, and he stared at her. She shook her head impatiently. "I ask you again…was it your choice?"

"You **know** it was not." His voice was so low that she could barely hear him.

"Then please stop this—now! I was deprived of many things when we were forced apart, Olivier…but I will not be deprived of the pleasure of introducing you to our daughter. There is nothing we can do about the past—there isno way to turn back the clock, as much as we wish we could at times. But if Andres is lucky enough to win the position of Master Falconer, I would like very much for you to be part of her life—in whatever capacity you feel comfortable."

He averted his gaze. "But I can never be her father. A kindly friend, perhaps…"

She took her face in his hands. "Look at me, please." In response, he slowly raised his eyes to her. "I loved you—we loved each other. And God blessed us with a wonderful gift in the person of this little angel. There was a reason we were brought together, however briefly. I firmly believe that." Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed his cheek, then suddenly choked back a sob. His arms were around her in an instant, and she began to cry to earnest, the raw pain of their lost love suddenly as fresh as it was the day they had parted.

"Shhh…shhh," he whispered, tucking her head under his. "All will be well, I promise."

Charlotte, rounding the corner to retrieve the shawl she had left in the library, froze in her tracks as she saw a weeping Annette wrapped in Athos' arms, clinging to him for dear life as he tried to soothe her. Although she wanted nothing more than to pretend she had not seen them, she could not stop staring at the couple. _Any moment now, he will look up and see me, and will pull away_, she thought, growing more and more uneasy the longer they remained locked in an embrace.

When Athos finally leaned down and kissed Annette tenderly on the forehead, Charlotte felt as if she could not breathe. A wave of sheer panic coursed through her body as he tilted up the chin of the mother of his child, looking at her with the utterly devastating, magnetic smile that had made Charlotte fall in love with him._ I am losing him_, she thought, and turned, running blindly down the hall.

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**Next time...Athos meets Catalina face to face, and Charlotte's doubts become overwhelming. **

**Thank you so much for all the reviews! They truly make me smile. I am on vacation for two weeks, but will try to update when I can...the islands of Scotland are calling me... **


	25. Chapter 25

_"The best thinking has been done in solitude. The worst has been done in turmoil."_

Thomas A. Edison

* * *

**CHAPTER XXV**

Annette smiled up at him and took a deep breath. "You always **were** the calm one. Give me a moment to send Tamara to go and check on Andrés. When you see her leave, come into the sitting room and try to relax. I'll speak with Catalina and let her know we will have a visitor." She hesitated for an instant. "I must tell you that her French is not very fluent."

Athos felt as if a knife had been struck through his heart._ I will not be able to communicate with my own child_. "I don't suppose she had any reason to learn it," he said softly._ Especially since I was not in the picture._

"Andrés and I felt it was important that she be bilingual. However, Spanish and Dutch were the languages we chose, since they were the mother tongues of her—parents."

"It was the obvious decision," replied Athos, his voice remote. "I had no right to expect her to be taught my language."

"But she **is** learning," added Annette hastily. "I have been working with her for the past few months in order to prepare her, should Andrés be lucky enough to land the position of Master Falconer. I am trying to speak to her only in French here at Fontainebleau, so you will have a chance to assess her progress."

"No doubt she is a quick learner, just like her mother." His eyes softened.

"I had the best of teachers." Her green eye seemed to deepen in color as her voice filled with affection. "You opened my life to so many things, Olivier…and not just French verbs."

"But at what cost?" he muttered, averting his gaze.

"**Everything** in life carries a risk. I was not naïve enough to believe that there was no chance of me becoming pregnant the night we made love."

"It never should have happened...but I...I thought they had killed you," Athos whispered.

"And they would have, if you had not intervened," Annette said fervently, seizing his hand. "Olivier, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

_It was a crisp fall day, and the leaves had just begun to fall from the shady oak trees that lined the boulevard leading to la Fère. Sebastian d'Athos and Annette's father had gone to Tours for the annual falconry tournament, and Thomas had accompanied them. They were not expected back for two days. Annette's mother had gone to help a friend who was having a difficult labor, and was not likely to return to the estate for at least a day._

_"__How would you like to go to the fair in Orleans?" asked Athos. It was just after dawn, and he had met Annette for a walk along the river, as was their custom._

_"__Are you serious?" responded Annette, her face full of delight._

_"__Do I ever joke with you?" Athos asked with a frown._

_"__Well, not really…" she answered with a mischievous smile, "but I have been trying to loosen you up a bit…"_

_"__Have you now?" he inquired, his voice warming. "Is that what those stolen kisses in the stables were all about?"_

_She had blushed. "Olivier, you know…"_

_He had caught her hands and kissed them. "Fear not, sweet Annette. You are a maiden, and your virtue is under my protection. I will guard you from the advances of men who would take advantage of such an innocent as yourself."_

_"__So your interest in me is purely that of a guardian?" Her eyes met his, and the distinctive contrast between the open, guileless blue and the intriguing, seductive shade of green quickened his pulse, as it always did._

_"__Until such time as I am given an indication that there is perhaps a promise of more," he murmured, sliding his hands to the curve of his waist. _

_"__If only…" She stopped and bit her lip._

_"__If only what?" he prompted. _

_"__Nothing." She smiled, attempting to brighten the mood. "I would love to go to the fair. But if our fathers find out…"_

_"__They won't," Athos declared firmly. "We will go early in the day, when the crowds are more sparse-it will be very easy for us to see all the sights with no one being the wiser."_

_"__That sounds lovely," sighed Annette. She then hesitated. "You** will** stay with me the entire time, won't you?"_

_"__I won't leave your side." His voice was reassuring, as he instinctively knew what she was thinking. Annette was uneasy when venturing outside the familiar confines of the estate, for she was often the subject of hostile glances and derisive remarks due to her unusual looks. He raised an eyebrow at her and smoothed back a lock of hair from her face. "Why would I want to be without you, even for a moment?"_

_She looked up at him and her expression turned serious. "Because your duty is to find a wife befitting your station…someone who has a pedigree that matches your own, not a misfit that attracts the wrong sort of attention wherever she goes."_

_"__You are **not** a misfit," Athos answered her firmly. "You are a beautiful, lively, intelligent woman. If the rest of the world cannot see that, it is their loss. I would be a lucky man indeed to have you as my wife."_

_"__Perhaps in a different time…or in a different…"_

_He silenced her by sealing her lips with a kiss, the passion of which took her by surprise. She slipped her hands in between them, intending to gently break their embrace, but ended up fisting her hands in his shirt and drawing him closer. When they finally separated, he whispered, "I am a man who knows his own mind, and I care not what my father or society says…I **will** marry a woman of my choice..a woman whom I love."_

"Thank God your life was preserved that day," he breathed, drawing her close again. "And the idea that our love produced a beautiful little girl makes me happy beyond all measure. So why don't you go and prepare her?"

Annette squeezed his hand, then motioned for him to secrete himself in one of the curtained alcoves in the corridor while she spoke with Tamara. Several moments passed, then Athos heard the rustle of a dress as Andrés' sister passed by. Once her steps had receded, he slipped out of the alcove and quietly entered the sitting room. He heard Annette speaking softly to their daughter, and he listened to her words, his nerves on edge.

"Your French is already improving, my love. You are doing quite well."

"But it hurts my head sometimes to think in it all day long, Mama. Can we speak in Spanish or Dutch now? It's almost bedtime, and you** promised** I could have a bedtime story that was not in French."

"Well, you may change your mind. I have a surprise for you. Do you remember the special friend I have told you about? The one whose estate I lived on when I was a young woman in France?"

"Of course! Olivier. He's the one who tamed the chipmunk so you could have it as a pet!"

Annette chuckled. "Yes, that's him. Well, he is here at Fontainebleau. Would you like to meet him?"

"Yes! Yes! Please!"

"The only problem is that he does not speak Spanish or Dutch…"

"That's fine," answered Catalina quickly.

Athos breathed a sigh of relief, and smiled at the eager tone of her voice.

"If you are **very** good, perhaps he will tell you a bedtime story. He is a very good story teller."

As she came to the door of the sitting room, Annette's eyes were dancing. "She will love you," she whispered, then caught his hand and led him into the bedroom.

Catalina was dressed in a light blue flannel nightdress, her long hair curling loosely around her shoulders. She clasped her hands tightly, her blue eyes wide with excitement. When Athos ducked under the low door to enter the room, the little girl's face lit up.

"Your weapons—are they all **real**? Mama didn't tell me you were a soldier!" Her accent was distinctly foreign, but something about her manner was familiar to Athos.

"Catalina Olivia!" Annette's voice was reproachful.

"Oh, pardon, Mama! Monsieur Olivier, I am pleased to make your acquaintance." She curtsied prettily, then extended her hand. Athos gracefully knelt down on one knee in front of the little girl.

"Mademoiselle Catalina, I am Olivier d'Athos of the regiment of Captain Treville, King's Musketeers." He brought her warm little hand to his lips and kissed it softly, prompting her to giggle. "I am at your service." He winked at her conspiratorially. "And yes, the weapons **are** real. Do you have any dragons or trolls you would like me to vanquish for you? I am ready to act as your champion." He bowed and placed his hand on his heart, Aramis-style.

When he raised his eyes, Catalina was gazing at him in adoration, a sweet smile on her face.

"Despite Thomas having had the reputation for being a ladies' man, you always knew just what to say to melt a woman's heart, didn't you?" murmured Annette, shaking her head in amusement.

His heart impossibly full, Athos barely heard her words.

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Charlotte, rushing headlong down the hallway, took two turns and suddenly found herself in front of Aramis' door. She impulsively knocked and entered without even waiting for a reply. The marksman, who was lying propped up against some pillows, raised an eyebrow as she rushed into the room and shut the door behind her.

When he caught sight of her ashen face, his expression turned to concern, and he asked urgently, "Charlotte, what's wrong? Is it Athos?"

She nodded, then burst into tears.

"Come here." His voice was gentle, but firm.

In an instant, she was on the bed next to him, and he carefully placed his arm around her shoulder. She clung tightly to his shirt and buried her face in his chest. "Aramis, I love him **so much**—but it's all falling apart. There's Milady, and she's bad enough, but now Annette...and I saw him kissing her in the hall, and now they are going to meet Catalina, and to top it all off…" she choked back a sob, then forced herself to continue, "I think I'm... pregnant."

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**Thank you for all your reviews! They are appreciated more than you know!**

**Next time...how has d'Artagnan been faring with only rats and hallucinogenic potions for company? And what advice will Aramis have for Charlotte?**


	26. Chapter 26

_"Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing."_

**Helen Keller**

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**CHAPTER XXVI**

D'Artagnan lay curled on his side, shivering uncontrollably. A small shaft of light shone under the door into his cell, and he closed his eyes to avoid seeing the horrible images that had appeared before his eyes over and over again during the past few hours.

The rat that had tormented him earlier in his imprisonment now seemed like a cherished friend. He was familiar, and had ceased to be a threat. D'Artagnan had decided to name him Alexandre, after his deceased father. Since the conversation he had had with one of his captors earlier, he had not ceased thinking about his father. He had found it remarkable that his guard, whom he had initially distrusted, had been incredibly compassionate, and had given him so much insight into the death of his cherished parent.

The musketeer had been given a foul-smelling liquid to drink several hours ago. The guard had told him that it would prevent infection from his bites. He had resisted swallowing it at first, but as the pain in his leg had worsened progressively, he had made the decision to drink it. At first he had felt nothing, but after thirty minutes or so, the walls of his prison had begun to ripple in bands that had continuously changed colors. The effect had been one of ethereal beauty, and the musketeer had not been able to stop staring at the kaleidoscope surrounding him.

At that point, the young man named Georges had come into the cell, bearing a tray of delicacies that made d'Artagnan's mouth water. There were cheeses, cold chicken, warm bread, and a small carafe of wine. As d'Artagnan ravenously ate, Georges had talked companionably to him. He had proven to be incredibly wise, and had been able to fill in details of the circumstances surrounding Alexandre's death that had left the musketeer dumbfounded. When he had been informed that some of those responsible were known to him, he had been outraged beyond belief. Even now, he felt tremors of fury run through his body.

"They will suffer, as my father suffered. I will make** sure** of that."

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Aramis kissed the top of Charlotte's head and drew her onto his shoulder.

"Are you sure?" he asked carefully. "After all, you have been married less than six weeks."

"Well, I suppose it is difficult to know for certain. After all, my courses have never been exactly regular…" She stopped and blushed to the roots of her hair. "Am I** really** having this conversation with you?"

"Believe it or not, I **am** aware of how babies are made," replied Aramis dryly. "What have you noticed?"

"Other than the lack of my cycle? I have been more emotional, and some things seem…bigger." Aramis involuntarily glanced down at her bodice.

"Aramis!"

"You said it, not me!" he protested with a grin, then sobered. "If your hunch proves true, how do you feel about the prospect of becoming a mother?"

"I—I don't know. A week ago, I would have been ecstatic...but now.."

The musketeer gave her a grim glance. "Has Athos been less than a gentleman? If he has been anything other than the most tender of lovers, I swear that I will correct that behavior immediately!"

"No, no! He is—" she stopped and flushed once again, "-everything I wanted, and more. It is just that his world—and mine by extension—has been turned upside down by Annette and Catalina appearing here. He is-" she hesitated, "—obsessed with the child, and I cannot blame him. I just wonder if…" Her voice trailed off into silence.

"Wonder if…" Aramis prompted.

"If he will ever feel the same about any child we may be lucky enough to be blessed with."

"Ah, therein lies the crux of the matter." Aramis was silent for a moment. "I imagine it is difficult enough to know that you are not the only woman that Athos has ever loved—but to see him coming face to face with the woman who was his first love, then meeting his daughter….it must be very painful, especially as you are still newlyweds. By all rights, Athos should be unable to take his eyes off you. After all, you have hardly had a moment to yourselves since your wedding night."

"You understand," whispered Charlotte in wonder, a tear rolling down her cheek. "Does it make me a horrible person to think that? I want so much for him to be able to get to know and love Catalina, and of course I would like him to have good relations with her mother, but a part of me that feels very small and very selfish wants them to recede into the background again as quickly as possible. And if Andrés becomes Master Falconer, there is no chance of that happening."

"Then you must find some way to deal with it," responded Aramis practically. "My advice would be to be the woman Athos fell head over heels in love with. Be your confident, caring, amusing, gentle self. You have no reason to be jealous or insecure, so do not give him reason to think that you are, even if thoughts cross your mind from time to time. Remind him with your actions how lucky he is to have you in his life…and his bed."

"You are incorrigible!"

"But you adore me anyway," he replied with a grin.

"Let's just say you have grown on me." She hesitated for a moment. "Perhaps it would be better if I say nothing to Athos about possibly being pregnant until I am quite sure. I could not bear to sound a false alarm, especially with…"

"What?" Aramis felt her body tense against him.

"Nothing." She realized she had made a mistake, for he had been about to drowse off, but was now more alert.

"Charlotte." His voice was reproving, and reminded her of the schoolmaster in her village from when she was a girl. Knowing there was no way out, she reluctantly told him of the notice that Athos had received from the Archangels.

Aramis muttered under his breath in Spanish, and Charlotte guessed from his tone that the words were not charitable. "Why did he not tell us?" he demanded.

"I think he didn't want to worry you," she said lamely.

"Well, he has succeeded in doing exactly that." Aramis was now irritable as well as fatigued.

"I should never have said anything," Charlotte murmured. "You need your rest. I will stay here for a moment until you are relaxed again, then I will return to my quarters to wait for Athos. And Aramis-"

"Yes?"

"Thank you for listening. I don't know what I would do without you."

Within a few minutes, they were both fast asleep.

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"I don't think I have any trolls or dragons here at the moment," replied Catalina after a moment of serious thought. "But I would like to hear a story about some. Have you ever fought any?" she inquired.

"Of a sort," replied Athos. "But they may look a bit different from the ones you imagine."

"Oh." She was quiet for an instant, then moved on quickly to another topic. "Why is your uniform so dark? Are you not allowed to have a different colour? Like pink or purple?"

Annette laughed outright, then quickly hid her smile behind her hand.

"I suppose I could if I was determined to do so," answered the musketeer slowly. "But it might be difficult to inspire fear in an enemy if I were dressed in pink leather. It would sort of ruin the image of a musketeer as a seasoned warrior."

"Why?!" demanded Catalina. "I like pink, and I think I can fight as well as any boy. Shall I speak to your captain for you?"

Athos fought back the urge to laugh hysterically. _I am in love with this girl already._

"Tell you what. If I **do** decide to go with pink and I need you to put in a word for me, I'll let you know. Is that a deal?" He held out his hand, and Catalina shook it solemnly.

"I promise, Monsieur."

"You may call me uncle, if you like." The words slipped out of his mouth as if by magic, completely against all the rules of his habitual reserve.

"Uncle Athos. I like the sound of that," the little girl declared. "My father had four brothers, but two died when they were very little-and I rarely see my Uncle Tomas. I should love to have an uncle in France."

"Then you shall have one." Athos granted her one of the rare warm smiles that made him indescribably attractive. "Now, I think your mother needs you to get ready for bed."

"Mama said you were a very good story teller. Can you** please** tell me a story? Just a short one? Please?"

"Is that permissible, Mama?" Athos asked Annette gravely, a pang of what-might-have-been hitting him as he imagined what it would have been like to have married Annette and to have experienced this domestic scene on a regular basis.

"**If** your audience promises to go to bed just as soon as you finish…no pleading for sequels allowed."

"I promise!" Catalina bounced onto the couch by the fire and promptly fished out a worn blue and green woolen blanket from behind a pillow, wrapping it around her small frame. Athos felt his throat constrict at the sight of the piece of fabric.

"Is that…" his voice caught, and he stopped.

"Yes," Annette replied, her voice low. "It is the one you bought for me at the fair…the one we…"

_Were wrapped in when you conceived Catalina_. His mind finished the sentence, and he looked up at her, tears pricking at his eyes.

"Once upon a time," he began, his voice a trifle unsteady, "there was a very shy, very beautiful girl who lived in the forest in a land far, far away. She was a wise, gentle soul, but looked different from most people. Because of this, sometimes she was treated quite horribly by people who were not very kind."

"How did she look different?" piped up Catalina. "Did she have two different color eyes, like Mama?"

"Indeed she did," replied Athos, his voice soft. "However, this princess-what shall we call her?"

"Princess-Forget-me-not!"

"That is—" Athos choked, "—a very original name."

"It's my favorite flower!" announced Catalina.

"Then Princess Forget-me-not it is," the musketeer agreed equably.

"Can I decide what color her eyes were?" asked the little girl.

"Of course."

"Pink and-purple!"

_Welcome to having a very small, very precious daughter,_ Athos thought, amazed by how quickly he had become enchanted by this delightful child.

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**Next time...Denise becomes uneasy when she attracts the attention of an unwanted admirer, while Athos is alarmed to find Charlotte missing from their quarters.**


	27. Chapter 27

_"Without contraries is no progression. Attraction and repulsion, reason and energy, love and hate, are necessary to human existence."_

William Blake

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**CHAPTER XXVII**

It had taken Athos nearly a half an hour to set the scene for the epic tale of Princess Forget-me-Not, as Catalina had insisted on having input into everything from the Princess' favorite pet (a chipmunk named Monsieur Acorn) and preferred headgear (a hat very similar to that of the musketeer, but with a wider brim and a purple feather).

By the time the details were set, Annette had declared it was time for Catalina to go to bed. "Thank Uncle Athos for the time he spent with you working on the story."

"Thank you!" her daughter chirped, and scrambled up in his lap, hugging him tightly. "Can you **please** continue it tomorrow?"

"If it is permitted by your mother. And your father, of course," added Athos, swinging her up and into Annette's arms, causing the little girl to laugh joyously.

"I'm sure he won't mind," said Catalina, a smile on her face. "My Papa is the **best** father ever."

"So he is," Athos agreed, a somewhat wistful look on his face that did not go unnoticed by the little girl. "You are very lucky indeed."

When he had closed the door behind him, Catalina kissed her mother's cheek, then settled against her shoulder. "I like Uncle Athos. He seemed a bit sad just now, though. Does he have any children?"

"I don't believe so," answered Annette, a bit distracted.

"Then he should get some!" Catalina suggested helpfully. "Has he a wife?"

"That he does," came the answer. "Perhaps she can lift his spirits tonight."

Athos leaned against the wall outside the room, thinking along the same lines_. Here I have been spending my time mourning what I have lost, instead of focusing on what I **do** have. I will never be Catalina's father, and the sooner I accept that, the better. I need to realize how incredibly lucky I am to have Charlotte in my life._ He thought of the passion they had shared the previous night, and suddenly could not wait to tell his wife how much he loved her.

Striding off in the direction of their chamber, he just missed Porthos and Denise, who climbed up the stairs, hand in hand. When they came to the top of the landing, Porthos took her in his arms and kissed her soundly once more, leaving her flushed and happy.

"I promised the Captain I'd give him a report. Will you be okay by yourself for a bit? I'll be back as soon as I can," he murmured.

"I will be lonely, but I think I can handle it," she said shyly. "Just don't be too long."

"The Gallery of Diane is through there," Porthos nodded at a set of elaborately carved doors. "The paintings on the ceiling are said to be amazing. Why don't you take a look? I'll come and find you as soon as I am done."

"That sounds lovely. I'll be waiting." She gave him one last quick kiss, then vanished into the gallery. Porthos stood gazing after her, almost afraid to believe that she was really interested in him. His skin color had never made much of a difference in the Court of Miracles, but once outside of the confines of that small space, he had quickly realized how significant societal prejudice was against anyone of mixed parentage.

Now that he had achieved his goal of becoming a member of the King's most elite regiment, he yearned for something more…for the peace and contentment he had seen in Athos when he had married Charlotte…and in d'Artagnan when he had fallen in love with Constance. There had been something about Denise that had captivated him from the moment he had met the widowed seamstress.

Porthos had the feeling that they were kindred souls, and he been impressed with what a wonderful job Denise had done raising Madeleine as a single mother. The big man loved children, and he wanted nothing more than to be a steady, reassuring presence in the lives of his sons and daughters. As he hastened to meet the Captain, his heart felt truly light for the first time in months._ Perhaps happiness is finally within my grasp._

Denise, meanwhile, found herself within a gallery that was longer than any hallway she had ever seen. Several sconces held burning torches, which served to shed a soft, mellow glow across her path. She walked a few steps, then stopped, overwhelmed by the beauty and majesty of all that surrounded her. The wood underneath her feet was exquisite inlaid parquet wood, the burnished sheen so lovely that she was almost afraid to venture further.

She looked up at the ceiling, and gasped at the elegant details in the scenes that depicted events from what she supposed was the myth of Diana, the goddess of the hunt. She found herself blushing at the numerous tableaux which presented a naked Diana in various poses._ I am no prude,_ she thought, _but this is a bit over the top_. Gold leaf graced the borders that separated the individual paintings, as well as the crystal chandeliers that hung at various intervals.

As Denise slowly moved forwards, she reached a space in the middle of the gallery that her imagination soon filled with glittering women in gorgeous gowns, chattering and dancing with handsome nobles. In her mind's eye, she saw herself pressed against the wall, dressed in a plain velvet dress, overawed by the scene around her. Suddenly, several musketeers entered the room, their rich blue dress cloaks draped on their shoulders.

She immediately saw Athos, blue eyes alert as he surveyed the room. His black leather was immaculate, and his weapons were polished to a gleam. Aramis stood by his side, his eyes brightening with interest at the bevy of beautiful women in attendance. D'Artagnan held back a bit, scanning the crowd for any sign of Constance. Her heart beat faster as she caught sight of Porthos. He stood tall and was every inch a confident, capable guardian of the King, proudly displaying his pauldron on his arm.

As a small quartet struck up the music, Porthos made his way through the crowd to bow in front of her. "May I have this dance?" he inquired in his most courtly manner, offset slightly by a rakish smile.

"Of course," she heard herself say aloud. Closing her eyes, she could hear the strains of the _gavotte_ echoing through the gallery, and her body began to move in time with the music. She had always loved to dance, but had not had the chance to do so in the years since she had been a widow. Whirling gracefully, she kept time to the rhythm in her head, the joy of feeling younger and freer than she had in many months infusing hope for the future into her soul.

Caught up in the scene in her head, she was oblivious to the fact that a hidden panel in the wall had slid open just ten feet away from her. A man emerged into the gallery, closing the panel behind him. He leaned against the wall, drinking deeply from the jewel-encrusted goblet in his hand. He was out of sorts that evening, and longed for a distraction. Expecting to find the hall empty, he was startled to see the willowy young woman dancing alone.

He could not quite place her, yet there was something familiar about her. Long dark hair curled around her shoulders, and her clear, fresh complexion glowed in the moonlight. Her dress was plain, but fit her like a glove, and highlighted her small waist and the gentle curve of her breasts. Perhaps it was the large carafe of wine he had already consumed, but she seemed to have an ethereal beauty that evoked the stirrings of desire within him.

Milady was certainly beautiful and talented, but she was no innocent, and had annoyed him this evening by trying to persuade him to buy her a new set of jewels. This woman was in an entirely different category, and would be in no position to make such demands. He recalled how delightful it had been in the past to bed the relatively inexperienced wives of farmers or merchants when they had been beauties and had caught his fancy. After all, no woman ever refused her King.

As she finally came to a stop, flushed and swaying, Louis spoke up, his voice husky. "You have a grace and beauty that is quite singular."

She gasped and dropped to a curtsy, her knees almost sinking to the floor. "Your Majesty! Forgive me! I had no right to be in here, and I deeply regret the impudence of my actions." The King was intrigued to note that she was trembling in agitation. _Perhaps she is already taken with me._

"Arise, my dear," he said warmly, extending a hand to help her up. "You have nothing to fear. In fact, you brightened what has otherwise been a beastly evening." He paused a moment, then added slyly,"I may have to impose some minor penalty, however, and I believe I know just the thing." Stepping over to the wall once more, he pressed the spring to the hidden panel with a flourish, revealing a narrow corridor flanked by a pair of Red Guards. "For dancing so prettily, I must insist that you have supper with me."

Denise hastily stepped back. The interest with which Louis' eyes travelled over her body left her feeling very uncomfortable. "Your Majesty, I could not possibly….I was waiting for a friend to meet me."

"Ah, you had an assignation planned with your lover," he murmured knowingly. "Well, I am happy to send word to him that you will be occupied for the evening."

_**For the evening?** What does **that** mean?!_

"Who is he?" Louis' face was neutral, but keen with interest. "Is it one of the falconers? A Red Guard? A musketeer?"

"No one, your Majesty…" she whispered. "Just…my cousin—Charlotte, the wife of the musketeer Athos."

"That is how I know you!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "The game in the library earlier! Denise, is it not?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

He turned to the Red Guards. "Please escort Mademoiselle Denise to my private apartments. And send word to Milady de Winter that her services will not be required this evening."

"I will see you in a few moments," he murmured, taking hold of Denise's hand and kissing it. His lips were felt coarse and cold on her skin, a sharp contrast to the gentle, warm caress of Porthos. As the monarch passed by the guards, they exchanged glances, then motioned to Denise to follow her, gazing at her with idle interest. With every step she took, Denise felt her panic mounting, and could think of no way out.

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Athos slipped into his bedchamber, and saw that the curtains were already drawn around the bed. Charlotte_ is already probably sound asleep,_ he thought, feeling guilty that he had tarried with Annette and Catalina. Shrugging off his doublet, he filled a glass full of brandy and rapidly downed it, hoping to chase away the emotions that had dogged him all evening.

Pulling off his boots, he poured some cold water from the ewer into the washbasin and splashed it over his face, bringing all his senses to attention. Moving silently to the bed, he slid the curtain back with care, then halted in shock. The bed was empty, but a knife was driven into the center of the pillow on Charlotte's side of the bed. Athos lifted it up gingerly, and found a note affixed to the tip._ We have not forgotten you—or your wife. Do not ignore our summons._ A black rose with angel wings attached to it was drawn underneath.

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**I apologize for the random and more infrequent updates, but on the plus side, vacation is amazing! I am so grateful for all the reviews and follows...they truly make me smile!**

**Next time...the King becomes more intrigued by Denise, while Porthos and Athos become more concerned about the whereabouts of Denise and Charlotte.**


	28. Chapter 28

_"If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life,"_

Oscar Wilde

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**CHAPTER XXVIII**

Louis stretched out comfortably by the fire in his library, enjoying a glass of brandy while he contemplated the delights that might await him this evening. He was not necessarily done with Milady, but he did need to show her that she served at his pleasure. He needed something different, and he would have it tonight. He supposed that he should have considered the Queen out of duty. However, the nights he went to Anne had been much less frequent since the Dauphin had been borne, and were never quite what he thought he deserved.

He knew he could not rely on one son alone to carry on the Bourbon name, as children often died before reaching the age of five. However, he also felt he deserved a break from the monotony of his lovemaking with Anne. Although she was beautiful, she often seemed detached, and he hated the fact that she never praised his prowess as his mistresses did.

The lovely young woman with the inviting figure, dove-grey eyes, and shining dark hair had caught his eye during the game in the library. When he had come upon her in the Gallery of Diane and had seen her dancing, it had seemed like fate. It had been clear to him that she desired him as much as he did her, and he was more than happy to grant her the honor of living out every woman's fantasy. A bit of a wait would only heighten the anticipation for both of them.

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Denise was shown into a small antechamber outside the King's private dining room. The Red Guard motioned for her to sit down, then turned to leave.

"How long am I expected to wait here?" she inquired, trying to make her voice much more confident than she felt. "I demand to be released to my quarters immediately!"

The guard looked back over his shoulder and gave her a lascivious grin. "You'll wait until the King is good and ready for you…could be five minutes, could be five hours. And you ain't bein' released nowhere without His Majesty's say so. I'd advise you to make yourself comfortable and enjoy the ride..so to say."

Chuckling to himself, he left and locked the door behind him. The room that Denise found herself in was small, but not unpleasant. It was approximately seven feet long and four feet wide, and was nicely furnished. A fire was burning in the hearth at the furthest end of the room, and cast a welcoming warmth over the space.

She seated herself in an ornately carved mahogany chair, graced with upholstery in the pattern of the House of Bourbon. Peering outside the casement window, she found that all she could see was a whirl of snowflakes in the darkness. The sense of isolation only served to increase her unease. A portrait of the King hung over the fireplace, and caught her eye as she looked up. The artist had captured him dressed in a fine blue silk waistcoat and cream colored breeches, and a gleaming sword, hilt encrusted in precious gems, hung at his side.

As Denise stared at the painting, her thoughts began to race. _What could the King possibly want with **me**? He can have any woman he desires…the most beautiful, most accomplished courtesans in all of France…_

_He wants you because he can have **anything** he wants_, replied her mind._ Men in power have claimed that right since time began. How can you possibly say no to the King? After all, many women would consider a night with him as an honor…and possibly a chance to capture the monarch's interest and end up as a lavishly kept mistress, or at the very least, with a handsome gift or two._

Her mind suddenly spun back to a simpler time in her life, and memories of lovemaking with Alain. She rarely allowed herself to relive those moments, as to so do only seemed to underline the magnitude of what she had lost. Her husband had always been considerate and tender in their intimate moments, and their love for each other had been so real…so true. Until she had met Porthos, she had thought she would never love in that way again.

The wisp of longing that had threaded through her body when the musketeer had kissed her had been a revelation, and had filled her soul with hope. _Someone understands you….understands all have been through, all you have had and lost….and he is a good, gentle, man who knows how to laugh and apparently finds you desirable, even with a young daughter. Life is not over._

A panel next to the fireplace slid open, jolting her out of her reverie. A leering Red Guard beckoned her forward. She stood up and moved forward mechanically._ I cannot imagine allowing a man I barely know to use my body in an intimate way…but what will his reaction be if I decline? Will he laugh, then just bid me undress anyway? Become furious, and have me imprisoned? Or just force me to submit? He is the King, and can do as he pleases._

The King's private dining room was intimate and cosy. A small table set for two, draped with a blue silk tablecloth, was perfectly positioned to enjoy the warmth from the fire. Two candles were lit, flames dancing in the air over the silver cutlery and exquisite china, all featuring the coat of arms of the House of Bourbon.

The guard indicated a chair in the corner. "Sit there." Denise obeyed, settling her skirts around her. She kept her eyes to the ground, expecting the imminent arrival of the King. When all remained quiet, she finally looked up, and her heart dropped. The positioning of the chair was obviously meant to send a message. Directly in her line of vision was an open door, which revealed the largest, most richly decorated bed she had ever seen.

Only one man had a bed like that.

_How stupid I was to hope._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Having finished with Treville, Porthos lost no time in hastening back to the Gallery of Diane. He had had to force himself to focus on his conversation with the Captain, wanting nothing more than to return to Denise.

Upon entering the gallery, he scanned the length of it, and saw no sign of the seamstress. Although his mind told him that he was alone, he paced the length of the great hall, then retraced his steps, unwilling to believe that she was really gone. Once Porthos had finally accepted the fact, worry began to take over._ She would never have left after promising me she would wait. Something is very, very wrong._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Athos was chilled to the bone. He had just re-entered the chateau, and was frustrated that his numbed feet would not move as quickly as he wanted them to. Melting snow filled his boots, and the ice that had crystallized in his beard and mustache had begun to thaw, sending rivulets of cold water down his neck. Another man might have stopped in order to see to his own comfort, but as with his drinking, Athos used the discomfort to mask the pain and despair that was growing in his heart.

Charlotte was nowhere to be found, despite a comprehensive search of the common areas. He had thoroughly searched the perimeter of the chateau, but there was no sign of any human presence. The search had been difficult with the mounting drifts of snow, but the musketeer had even briefly floundered into the maze, where the snow was over two feet deep.

He had soon realized he would run the risk of becoming lost in the blizzard if he continued on. _They have her with d'Artagnan_, he had thought in anguish as he turned back. _We will never find them._

His only thought now was getting to Aramis and Porthos, as he desperately needed the comfort of their presence. There was even a slim chance the marksman would be making sense by this time, as one of the other musketeers had told him that his friend had been moved back to his own chamber. In fact, there was every likelihood that Porthos was sitting by his side even now. As Athos reached Aramis' room, he rapped quickly on the door, then wrenched it open, anxious for the counsel of his comrades.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he noted that the chair by the bedside was empty. However, the marksman was clearly not alone. He was comfortably wrapped around a distinctly feminine form that was pressed against him._ I am not **even** believing this_, thought Athos. "For God's sake, Aramis!" he thundered.

The dark head on the pillow shot up, then fell back onto the pillow in a gesture of resignation to Athos' fury. The elder musketeer suddenly had an uncomfortable image of finding Aramis in exactly the same position with the Queen at the convent. "**Please** tell me that's not…"

"It's not who you think," Aramis blurted out, then added hastily, "Although I doubt you'll like the reality any better. But despite what it looks like…"

His words were drowned out by the beat of Athos' own heart when he saw Charlotte sit up next to Aramis and toss the duvet off her. "Athos!" She blinked, and looked somewhat confused as she saw the ice on his beard. "What have you been doing?"

He slowly took off his hat, snow falling onto the carpet, and stared at her, a dozen different emotions rushing through his head at once. _Relief. Anger. Joy. Jealousy. Love. Disappointment. Desire. Sorrow._

"Have you **any** idea what I have been through in the last two hours?" His voice was soft, almost caressing, and served as a marked contrast to his appearance. His thick, unruly hair was plastered to his head, and his eyes had grown wild. Aramis tensed, knowing what was likely to follow.

"Well, I will tell you," he said, then paused. "I have been combing this palace inside and out, THINKING YOU HAD BEEN KIDNAPPED OR KILLED!" He looked away, and his voice began to tremble. "I thought I had lost you forever….and now to find you safe, but in this position….there are NO WORDS for what I am feeling right now!"

Charlotte, recognizing that his anger and fear were making him unreasonable, slid off the bed. "Athos, you are exhausted, and you have…" As she stood up, a wave of nausea suddenly hit her. She curved a hand around one of the bed posters, determined not to vomit. She kept her tone gentle and loving. "You have been through a lot today…and to be fair, so have I. You know me better than to think I have been anything other than faithful to you. I merely needed…" She saw spots in front of her eyes, and felt herself start to slump to the ground. Losing the will to resist, she sank into darkness, dimly hearing Athos calling to her.

* * *

**Finally home...thank you for staying patient with me despite erratic posting..I will try to get the next chapter up in a couple of days, but work may keep me busy for a couple of days. As always, your reviews and comments truly make me smile!**

**Next time...Denise tries to think of a way out of her predicament, and Athos and Charlotte sort out their emotions.**


	29. Chapter 29

_"My only feeling about superstition is that it's unlucky to be behind at the end of the game."_

Duffy Daugherty

* * *

CHAPTER XXIX

Annette smiled as she looked down at her sleeping daughter. Once her head had hit the pillow, Catalina had fallen asleep in a matter of moments. The little girl's mouth was curved up in a smile, and her mother caught her breath. In that instant, Catalina so strongly resembled her father that Annette had to look away. For the second time that day, she found herself wondering—_what if_?

She knew no good could come of pursuing that line of thought. The past was now the past. Athos had a clever, pretty young wife who seemed to adore him. And she had Andrés. He was the best of husbands—responsible and thoughtful, with a wry sense of humor…and he had accepted her and loved her from the start, despite her unconventional looks. He himself was attractive in a classically Spanish way, with dark hair that flowed to his shoulders and warm brown eyes that could be incredibly seductive when he wanted them to be.

_I cannot wait to tell him that I felt the baby today_. She had been waiting with eager anticipation for that magical moment when the smallest fluttering sensation in her belly would let her know her little son was growing strong and healthy. _He will be so excited._

As she slipped into the library, Annette saw her husband sitting up on his _chaise longue_, a thick woollen blanket spread over his lap. His eyes were focused on the fire, and he was entirely unaware of her presence. He seemed lost in thought, and she was reluctant to break his reverie. Finally, he glanced up and saw her.

"I assume our angel is asleep?"

"You assume correctly," she answered lightly.

"It seems as if she had quite an eventful evening," he said, his voice casual.

"Perhaps in her mind," replied Annette with a smile, "but I can assure you it was quite ordinary. She had a bath, a short bedtime story, and then went off to sleep."

"Ah." He was silent for a moment. "When she came to say good night, she told me that Athos had stopped by to visit."

"He did." She kept her voice carefully neutral. "He and Catalina got on quite well. He seems to have a knack for relating to children."

"Then hopefully he and Charlotte shall have some of their own soon. They seem very much in love."

"They do," she agreed equably. "I am glad for him."

"Are you?" he asked casually, giving her a speculative look that she found unnerving. _Please, God, for the sake of my daughter-do not let him suspect the truth._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As Charlotte sank to the ground, Athos managed to catch her in his arms. Aramis struggled out of bed, and slowly made his way over to them, wincing at the pain in his abdomen.

"Charlotte! Charlotte!" Athos tried in vain to rouse her, but she remained limp in his arms, her face deathly pale.

"Aramis, what's wrong?" Aramis was used to seeing Athos remain coolheaded and unflappable in the most dire situations, so the panic in his voice was unsettling. "Her skin is damp with sweat! You know…" he swallowed heavily, "there **was** an outbreak of the plague in Macherin several weeks ago…that's scarcely ten miles from here. You don't think.."

"No, I don't," replied Aramis firmly. "What I **do** think is that she has been working herself to the bone taking care of the injured, and has spent next to no time caring for herself. She is also worried about you, Athos."

"I can take care of myself," muttered Athos, chafing Charlotte's wrists. She moaned softly and tried to sit up.

"Not yet, my love," he said, his voice gentle. "Get your bearings first."

"Where…where am I?"

"Aramis' room. When did you last eat?"

"I…I don't know. Maybe this morning?"

Aramis shot Athos a knowing look. "Let's get you back in bed, then Athos and I will get you some tea and toast while you rest."

Athos picked up Charlotte carefully, and made his way over to the bed, tenderly lowering her onto the pillows. She mumbled something unintelligible as he pulled the duvet over her, then fell fast asleep.

"We need to have a conversation. Now." Aramis' voice had regained its strength, and he fixed a piercing eye on his comrade.

"There is nothing to say," replied Athos coolly, leaving the bedroom for the adjoining sitting room.

Aramis followed. "Oh no, Athos. Not this time. You are **not** putting me off by playing Master Moody Grapefruit. Charlotte and I had heart to heart conversation before you showed up, and it seems that you have not been entirely upfront with us, my friend."

Athos arranged his face into a perfectly neutral expression. "Is there a particular reason you feel compelled to be dramatic this evening? I have a wife to take care of."

"Yes, you do!" hissed Aramis, his eyes blazing. "The question is, **why** does it take you finding her in bed—purely innocently, I might add—with another man to get you to pay attention to her? Athos, she is not Milady!"

"Really? I hadn't noticed," replied Athos sarcastically. "Now, if you are quite done…."

"NO, I AM NOT! According to Charlotte, you have been threatened with execution by the same shadowy group that finished off your former blacksmith. True?"

tAthos rolled his eyes. "Not exactly. I have merely been given a summons to appear at the Court of the Archangels of Justice several days hence."

"Ah, I see. And that group seems to have a track record of mercy, so I am sure there is nothing to worry about!" Aramis' voice dripped with irony. "Athos, Charlotte has no father or brothers to look out for her, so I have appointed myself in that role. **How** can you be so cavalier about this? Your wife is beside herself with worry, and you appear to have no interest in making a plan to ensure that you are around to celebrate your first anniversary."

"I am working on it." Athos crossed his arms defensively, leaning against the wall.

"Working on it….while you make up for lost time with Annette."

"Mind your tongue," Athos growled. "You have **no idea** what went on between the two of us when we were young, Aramis, so **do not** even try to take that tack with me. It was **not** just puppy love…"

"So I gather." Aramis stared accusingly at his friend. "Because Charlotte inadvertently revealed to me that Catalina is your daughter."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

With the King's arrival in his private dining room, the whole situation suddenly seemed incredibly surreal to Denise. After all, she was just a simple seamstress from a small town in the French countryside. She had come to Fontainebleau on a lark with Charlotte, looking forward to spending some time with Porthos. Somehow things had gone horribly wrong, and now she was having dinner with the King of France, who obviously planned to have her share his bed that evening.

"You look even more fetching by candlelight," murmured Louis with a grin, kissing her hand as she curtsied to him. He waited expectantly, then cleared his throat when she remained silent. Denise suddenly realized that he was obviously anticipating a compliment.

"And you look…..very…" she wracked her brain for an appropriate word. "Umm…" _I have no idea how to address him. This is such an_… "unusual!"

His face contorted into an expression of bewilderment. "Unusual? What does…Ah, I get it.." He giggled, then winked at her. "I'm not like most other men! Yes, my sweet, you are correct! And you will find out **just** how special I am tonight. But first…we must satisfy our appetites at the table before we move on to other delights. Come with me."

Tucking her hand under his arm, he led her to the table, then stopped. "You may pull out my chair," he declared grandly.

_There are no words for this_, thought Denise acidly as she pulled out the monarch's chair. Suddenly, all her fears vanished, and an idea came into her head, giving her the urge to laugh hysterically. _I believe I know exactly how to get out of this mess_.

As the seamstress pushed his chair in, she allowed her elbow to hit the carafe of wine sitting on a small stand next to the main stable. It fell to the floor with a crash, splashing the red liquid all over her dress and the King's clothes.

The King jumped up. "My new silk breeches!"

"My apologies, Your Majesty. It is a mystery to me how I can be so skilled with needlework as a seamstress, and yet so clumsy in other endeavors. My mother always says disaster follows me everywhere."

"Ah, you are a seamstress! Well, my dear, you have won yourself a new commission," he pronounced, his voice jovial. "I didn't really care for the cut of these breeches anyway. I suspect that your work, on the other hand, would exceed my every expectation." He chuckled to himself, leering at her as she returned to her seat. "Of course, you** will **have to take my measurements…but that can wait for later on tonight."

_Some of your measurements may change if you continue to act like a lecher_, thought Denise in annoyance. A footman quickly replaced the carafe, and poured them each a glass of wine.

Sitting down and arranging her skirts, she frowned as a second footman brought in the first course, a cream colored soup. As he went to place it in front of her, she raised a hand imperiously.

"Stop! What IS this?"

"Potage à la Reine, my lady.

"And **what** is the stock made from?"

"Fowl. I believe the cook mentioned it was grouse."

She looked at up him with suspicion. "Did it have a white breast?"

The footman raised an eyebrow at her. "I cannot say, my lady. The cook did not give me a detailed description of the bird she used to make the stock."

"**Take it away**!" she shrilled. "I will** not** take the risk. Everyone knows that the appearance of white-breasted birds is an omen of death! Please, Sire…do not risk it!"

Louis gave her an odd look, then waved away the footman impatiently. "Skip it."

He gave her a smile. "After all, we have so much to look forward to. The soup is of no consequence."

Denise blushed. "I have to admit, your interest in me took me **completely** by surprise. It is no secret that my reputation has been made my life quite difficult. But tonight could change **everything** for me. If things go well, Porthos may be convinced that I am really the woman for him."

Louis, who had just raised his glass of wine to his lips, inadvertently inhaled, and began to cough vigorously.

"Your reputation?"

"Yes. Don't tell me you are unaware of it?" Denise's face fell. "I had assumed…but I must have been wrong," she whispered.

"Now you have piqued my interest, sweet Denise." He settled back in his chair, his expression one of keen interest. "What dark secrets are in your past? Were you mistress to a dissolute aristocrat? No, no…perhaps you have had a storied career as a courtesan to the highest echelons of society? And **why** are you even mentioning a musketeer as an object of your affections when you are currently basking in the glory of your King?"

"You have heard of the Black Widow of Moret-sur-Loing?" she asked, her voice quivering, and barely above a whisper.

"Of—of course," responded Louis with assurance, having no idea whom she was referring to. "But explain how that relates to you."

"I am she," she intoned, schooling her face into a perfect mask of agony and desperation. "And yes, it is true-every man who has ever made love to me has died." _Not a lie…Alain was the one and only. Forgive me, my darling husband._

"Well, that is just **ridiculous**! How can such a vision of loveliness like yourself be an..an instrument of death?" Louis thought for a moment, then asked hesitantly, "On second thought, how many deaths have there actually been?"

"The number is unimportant…" Denise said mournfully. "It is the **manner** of the deaths that has been so disturbing. A sudden illness, then death following within twenty four hours. But before they pass, the men endure the most **hideous** suffering imaginable. It has been several lonely years for me since my reputation has spread, and I had begun to fear I would never find happiness again. However, I believe I may have found love with Porthos." She sighed bitterly. "The problem is that he has heard the stories, and he is afraid…afraid of marrying me and consummating our love, then dying a horrible death. But **you** could be the key to changing **everything**."

"And why would **that** be?" inquired Louis uneasily.

Denise leaned forward, her voice rising in excitement. "A month ago, I was desperate, and I consulted a renowned wise woman. I just **had** to find out if there was any way of breaking the-the string of destruction I have wrought on the men in my life. She said there was one possible way to end the curse. If I slept with a King and he survived the night, the spell would be broken."

"Did she..did she happen to mention the likelihood of the King surviving such an encounter?" he asked, his voice strained.

"Oh, she said there would be a 50-50 chance," replied Denise breezily. She gave him a knowing smile. "But I bet **you** are the kind of man who would laugh at such odds. **You** are the kind of man who would look death in the face and **welcome** the chance to possibly cheat it. So I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Your Majesty…if you live to see the dawn, I will owe you a debt of thanks I can **never** repay."

A footman returned to the table, placing a loaf of bread in front of the King. "May I, Sire?"

"Go ahead, please cut it," Louis answered absently, his thoughts racing.

The man cut into the loaf, and as he removed the crust, a large, gaping hole was evident in the center.

The servant smiled fondly. "A hole like that in the bread always reminds me of my granny." He waved the knife in the air with animation. "She was a superstitious old woman, Your Majesty. She believed in that old saying that if you found a hole in a loaf of bread you cut, it symbolized a coffin and meant that someone was soon to die." He chuckled and shook his head. "I am sure **you** are too educated a man to give credence to such silliness."

The King stared at the bread. In his mind, he saw his coffin being carried out of Notre Dame, with a weeping Anne carrying his son in her arms as she followed behind.

He bolted to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor. "I have suddenly remembered that…I...I...have a **pressing** matter of state…yes, a **national emergency** to attend to. Please accept my apologies, Mademoiselle Denise. Perhaps…another time. You may go."

Denise forced herself to look disappointed. "But…but…"

"Duty calls, my dear!" He gave her a weak smile. As he turned to leave the room, he caught the arm of the footman, and whispered in his ear. "Send for Milady de Winter, and ask her to come to my bedchamber immediately. Please also set out my jewel cask." He sighed, resigned to the fact that the green-eyed beauty would no doubt expect a handsome peace offering. "I suspect I will have to make a substantial gift in order to make amends."

"Yes, Your Majesty." The man bowed.

"And for the love of God, escort Mademoiselle Denise out of my apartments as soon as possible. By the way, is there a priest about? I may need for this room to be exorcised before I set foot in it again."

* * *

**Credit to LadyCavil for the moniker of "Master Moody Grapefruit" as she so christened Athos in one of her reviews...it was just begging to be used in a story!**

**Next time...Athos and Charlotte have a conversation (they were derailed by other events), and Anne pays another visit to Aramis.**

**Much love to all readers and reviewers! If you have a moment, let me know what you thought...**


	30. Chapter 30

_"No memory is ever alone; it's at the end of a trail of memories, a dozen trails that each have their own associations."_

Louis L'Amour

* * *

**CHAPTER XXX**

"Charlotte did** what**?" Athos' face was pale with shock.

"So it **is** true." Aramis sighed, and ran his hands through his hair distractedly. "Let me make sure I understand this correctly… at the present moment, you have your ex-wife, current wife, and first love/mother of your child all here under the same roof with you." Athos stared at him stonily, and remained silent.

Despite his frustration at Athos' reticence, the marksman could not hold back a grin. "And I thought **my** love life was complicated."

"I swear, Aramis, sometimes I think you are **the** most…." Athos' voice rose to a near shout before he cut himself off. "This is **not **the time or the place. I need to speak with Charlotte. Now."

"You will do NO such thing," growled Aramis, grasping the leather of Athos' doublet. "Look," he murmured, trying his very best to be reasonable, "She was exhausted, and emotionally overwhelmed…and it just slipped out. I think she thought I already knew."

"But I** specificall**y told her that** no one** else knew about Catalina! No one except..well, Milady."

"Oh, just your assassin ex-wife? Well, your secret is sure to be airtight, then. No worries." Aramis' sarcasm only served to heighten the fury on Athos' face.

"If I cannot trust Charlotte to keep a secret, who **can** I trust? There are **lives** at stake, Aramis…the life of an** INNOCENT** six year old girl, who happens to be my daughter!"

"And your **MARRIAGE** will be at stake if you don't get your head straight!" Aramis glared at him, no longer able to conceal his rage. "**Did you** **or** **did you not** kiss Annette in the corridor earlier?"

Athos locked eyes with him, using his best aristocratic stare. "It was just a kiss on the forehead," he said evenly. "We were…reliving old memories. It was nothing like what you are trying to imply."

"Well, what the **HELL** was it then?" Aramis now practically shouting. "For God's sake, Athos, I don't care if you kissed Annette on the nose, toe, or elbow! This needs to stop—**now**!" He lowered his voice, eyes blazing. "For your information, Charlotte **saw** you! How do you think **that** makes her feel?" he spat. "She gave up **EVERYTHING** for you, Athos. Her relationship with her father, the work she loved. And **how** do you repay her? By appearing to be obsessed with your first love, who is now happily…well, at least, when I last checked…married to another man!"

Athos, now wild with emotion, did not hesitate as his fist connected with Aramis' jaw. The blow snapped the marksman's head to the side, and he reeled backwards, then lost his balance, wincing at the pain that stung his body as his injured side hit the ground.

The elder man stood over Aramis, breathing heavily. When he spoke, his voice was cold. "**Never** **again** speak to me of Annette, or my daughter! You have **no idea!**" his voice became husky with emotion.** "No idea** what I went through! Or what she endured! All to keep our child safe! And** stay away** from Charlotte….the **last thing** she needs right now is advice from you. In fact, you have some gall lecturing me about my supposed lingering feelings for a married woman! I just found** you** in bed with my own wife! What is **that**?" His eyes suddenly darkened with suspicion. "How do I know this whole thing isn't just you making a play for her? After all, it's what you do, isn't it? Sleep with half the married women in Paris?"

"I think you had better leave…now." The marksman's words were laced with fury.

"Gladly! And my wife comes with me!" Striding back into the bedroom, Athos picked up Charlotte, not stopping to entangle her from the duvet, which trailed forlornly behind him as he left the room. He did not glance at Aramis, who had pulled himself to his feet, gingerly checking the stitches in his side. Miraculously, they had stayed in place.

As his made his way down the darkened hallway and brought her into the privacy of their chamber, Charlotte stirred in Athos' arms. "Where are we going?" she mumbled. "Did you find some tea?"

Guilt flooded through Athos as he gazed down at this wife, her face illuminated by the bit of moonlight that filtered through the cloud cover. He had not looked at her closely earlier, and the dark circles under her eyes stood out against her deathly pale skin. _My God, he's right… Aramis is right_. His thoughts spun back to his whirlwind courtship with Charlotte, and in his mind's eye, he saw her coming down the stairs at the palace the night of the New Year's Ball, her eyes sparkling and face flushed with excitement.

At his eyes roved over her features, he was shocked to see her prominent her cheekbones were. She had lost weight, and he hadn't even realized it until now. The graceful curve of her collarbones stood out more than ever, and he suddenly felt sick. _Why did I **ever** think I could be a good husband? What kind of man is oblivious to the fact that his wife is ill and exhausted?"_

"Why were you shouting at Aramis?" she whispered, a tear running down her cheek. "It's not right, Athos. He has been **so** supportive…ever since I met you…he is **always** there for me when I need him."

Athos swallowed. "You mean he is there for you when I am not." His voice was flat, and the self-hatred he had felt in the wake of his disastrous marriage to Anne came back all over again.

"**Please** don't do this to me," Charlotte's voice trembled. "I **cannot** handle your self-pity! Not now. Not on top of what I saw earlier. I only asked **one thing** of you, Athos…not to betray my trust.** One thing**! And you couldn't do it." The tears suddenly flowed freely down her cheeks, and she began to sob brokenly.

Athos carried her to the bed and sat down, rocking her gently in his arms. The woman he was holding was not his confident, happy, witty, wife. He had absolutely no idea what to do.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The Palace had settled down for the evening. Aramis climbed back into bed, and found himself plucking the sheets restlessly. The argument with Athos had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He had been surprised, but not entirely shocked, when his friend had resorted to physical violence. There had been several occasions where a drunken, belligerent Athos had fought his comrades when they sought to remove him from a tavern.

Those occurrences usually were confined to the week in May that held two dates that were seared into Athos' heart…the date of his brother's death, and the day he had hung his wife. His friends understood the depth of his pain at those times, and made allowances for his behavior. After all, they had all exhibited outrageous behavior at one time or another. Hadn't d'Artagnan's initial appearance at the garrison opened with his declaration that he was there to kill Athos?

_That was a case of mistaken identity, though. This is something entirely different._ He sighed and laid his head back on the pillow, then lifted it up again a moment later, alertness flooding through his body. _There it was again_. A soft, scratching noise came from the door.

Struggling to his feet one more time, he limped over to the door, seizing his pistol and priming it as he went.

Slowly closing his hand around the door, he jerked it open, pointing his pistol directly into the wide blue eyes of the Queen, who stared at him with terror.

"Your Majesty!" He hastily tucked the pistol into his waistband and pulled her into the room, shutting the door behind him.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed.

The smile that had won Aramis' heart from the first time he had looked at her slowly illuminated her face, highlighting the lovely features that he had memorized the night they had spent together at the convent. That evening, he had laid awake for hours, gazing at her while she slept, spent by the passion of their lovemaking.

_I will never be this happy again_, he had thought, running a thumb along the gentle slope of her breast as he marveled at her soft, pliant body, and the joyous love that she had given to him so freely, without reservation.

"I had to see for myself," she whispered, then slipped her arms around him, resting her cheek against his chest. "Had to see that you were…."

"Not dead?" he supplied helpfully, his chest rumbling with laughter. "No, I am afraid that I am very much alive…"

Lifting up her head, she placed a finger on his the curve of his strong jaw, then tilted his mouth down to meet hers. The fierce passion of her kiss took him by surprise, and he felt his body rapidly beginning to respond to the urgency of the embrace.

Breaking away with difficulty, he gazed down into her eyes. "This is not a good idea," he rasped, his voice already thick with desire.

"Says who?" Anne replied innocently, unclasping her cloak and tossing it to the side. Her deft fingers went at once to his pistol. "You won't be needing this."

His hand slid on top of hers. "I will if the King finds out you've been here."

She laughed, a bitter sound that chilled him to the bone, as it was so contrary to her sweet, gentle nature. "I doubt he could find his way to my room right now even if he wanted to. He hasn't been to my chambers on Fontainebleau in at least five years. Besides, he's likely already passed out in bed next to the ever-talented Milady de Winter."

"He is a fool," Aramis said softly, the depth of feeling evident in his voice as he began to unpin her elaborate hairstyle with one hand, simultaneously easing the pistol out from Anne's grip. Tossing it onto a nearby table, he then turned his attention back to her, both hands now roaming through her hair, skillfully freeing her long, sleek locks from the constraints of the pins.

Breathing in the scent of her hair, he murmured, "There **is** the matter of my recent gunshot wound…."

"I think we can work around that," she replied, gasping as trailed his mouth down the curve of her neck.

"It **was** considerate of you to come somewhat…underdressed?" Aramis grinned as he stepped back for a moment, gazing appreciatively at her deep blue silk dressing gown. "What was your excuse going to be if someone saw you in the corridor?"

Anne tossed her head. "Aramis, **please**. My cloak covered me completely, and no one stops their queen to check what she is wearing." She slanted her eyes up at him seductively. "However, if such an occasion arose, I would gladly submit to inspection of my person-a **thorough** one, mind you—no shirking of responsibility-by a trusted soldier of the Crown. Do you happen to know of anyone I can trust with such a task?"

A deep, joyous laugh suddenly escaped from Aramis, and Anne's heart warmed. _He is truly on the mend. _"I suppose I could make the ultimate sacrifice for my country," he replied huskily. "However, my mobility may be a bit limited by my recent injury." A glint appeared in his eye. "How flexible are you feeling this evening? My current limitations may require you to be….a bit more agile than in the past."

"I believe I will be able to perform at a level that you will find quite satisfactory," answered Anne, her eyes sparkling as she slid her fingers inside the waistband of his breeches, slipping them off in a matter of seconds.

"Such talent," he murmured with amusement as she eased his shirt off moments later. "Have you ever thought about pursuing a career as a dresser? I could use one. My wardrobe is a mess."

Her dressing gown slid to the floor, and she took his hand, leading him over to the bed and settling him back against the pillows. "Oh, I'm not sure I would be very good at it," came her answer as she bent her lips to his navel, causing him to arch his back slightly as he shivered with pleasure. Anne glanced up at him slyly, her long blond hair tumbling around her shoulders. "After all, I feel my real skill lies in getting your clothes off, not on."

* * *

**Every time I write an Annamis scene, I wonder why it has taken me so long to get back to them... to the guest reviewer from last chapter, I hope you liked it! A hug to all of you who are continuing to read along, and to the new readers who have recently joined in...**

**Next time...Porthos and Denise are reunited, and Charlotte and Athos struggle with their emotions. D'Artagnan has been languishing in the cellar for quite some time now, so I believe it may be time to pay him a visit...**


	31. Chapter 31

_"A lack of transparency results in distrust, and a deep sense of insecurity."_

Dalai Lama

* * *

CHAPTER XXXI

After Charlotte had calmed a bit, Athos shifted her back against the pillows, silently offering a prayer of thanks that he had had the good sense to dispose of the pillow that had been ruined by the knife left by the Archangels. He took her face in his hands with tenderness, and as she stared back at him, Charlotte saw his eyes fill with tears.

"Tell me what to do, and I'll do it," he whispered, the warmth of his fingers slowly spreading to her cheeks. "You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I…"

"Do you mean that?" she asked, her voice tight with emotion. "Because **please** don't say it if it's not true. I couldn't bear for you to just soothe me with platitudes." She took in a shaky breath, then murmured, "Athos, I so want to believe it is true, because I cannot stand the idea of spending the rest of my life living in the shadow of the women you loved before me. I can't-I **won't** do it! I deserve a husband who adores me the way I do him—who would…." she stopped and bit her lip, fighting to keep from losing control.

He drew her into his arms and settled against the pillows, stroking her hair gently. "I'm not Aramis….I don't have an innate sense for saying just the right compliment to make a woman light up. I'm not Porthos…I don't have that joyful, booming laugh and the zest for life that he does. And d'Artagnan…you know how different we are, although I treasure his friendship."

He fell silent, then kissed her forehead, and said softly, "Who I am is this somewhat damaged person who has had plenty of sorrow and heartbreak in his life…more than I ever wanted. And maybe it was a mistake for me to marry you before I had sorted myself out completely. But you were this amazing, warm-hearted, beautiful enchantress…you won my heart from the moment I met you. Your poise, your laugh, your kindness, your innocence….I wanted you badly. You accept me for who I am, and you love me despite my faults. If that isn't true, unselfish love, then I don't know what is."

She tilted her head to look up at him, and asked quietly, "Let me ask you something…how did it make you feel when I told you that Aramis has always been there for me?"

"Like… I have taken much more from our relationship than I have put into it. And if I am honest with myself, it is the truth." He exhaled slowly, his blue eyes darkening, suddenly becoming more remote.

"Please tell me what you are thinking," she whispered, tracing her fingers along his cheek. "I need for you to be honest with me as well as yourself."

"I once…" he stopped, and closed his eyes for an instant, as if the memory was painful, then continued, his voice growing husky. "I once told Anne that I had given her everything….and I did. I expended every last ounce of emotional and physical energy to try to make her happy—and it was never enough. She was insatiable-she took and took and took from me, until there was nothing left…just a hollow shell of the man I had once been. So you **must** understand that when I met you, everything was different—so new and well, exciting. You have such a generous heart—you are always thinking of others first. Yet I also discovered that you had a sensual magnetism that you were entirely unaware of...and that combination was incredibly seductive. It's hard to describe, but it was truly intoxicating to have someone care for me…truly care…and want me as much as I wanted them—body, heart, and soul. And how have I repaid you? I have become Milady to your Athos—and I rue the day I took your innocence away from you."

As Charlotte listened to his words, tears ran down your cheeks. "You may have taken away my innocence, but you have given me an incredible gift by opening your heart to me….and **that** is a gift that is priceless."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Denise flew down the corridor, almost dizzy with relief. _I have to find Porthos…he must be beside himself with worry._ As she turned down the hall to the visitor's quarters, she suddenly ran into the big man himself.

"Thank God you're safe!" He picked her up in his arms and whirled her around exuberantly, then set her down, his expression full of concern. "I was almost insane with worry! What happened?"

She began to laugh giddily. "Oh Porthos… I can't even begin to tell you…the King…"

"The King what?!"

"He tried to seduce me!" she blurted out, erupting into another fit of laughter…"In fact, he had the royal bedchamber prepared for me to spend the night."

Porthos glanced down the corridor, then drew her into one of the small drawing rooms. "I am somehow not findin' that funny," he hissed, his fists clenching. "Did he dare to…?"

"He wanted nothing to do with me," she giggled, "not after he learned my horrible secret."

"Which is…?" The big man looked completely bewildered.

Denise spread open her arms dramatically. "Meet the Black Widow of Moret-sur-Loing. Approach her with care, for no man that has slept with her has ever survived the experience."

A grin slowly spread across Porthos' face. "You didn't."

She nodded, her smile mirroring his. "I did."

"You brilliant, brilliant, woman!" He drew her to him, chuckling as he placed his hands securely around her waist. Sobering for a moment, he asked gravely, "Have I ever told you that I find intelligent, resourceful women very, very alluring?"

She gazed up at him demurely through her lashes. "I don't believe you have—but I accept the compliment."

Looking over his shoulder, she suddenly gasped. "Porthos! Look! Have you ever seen anything so lovely?"

He turned and gave a low whistle. The sky had finally cleared, and hundreds of stars shone against the inky black blanket of the night sky. The moon, perfectly round and luminous, shone over the landscape, illuminating the drifts of snow as if they were precious works of art.

Denise walked towards the large French doors as if in a trance. "It looks as if God took a bunch of diamonds, crushed them, and tossed them into the sky. Come on, let's go outside!"

"Are you crazy? It's freezing out there!"

She slanted a look at him that made his heart skip a beat. "Isn't that why I have a Musketeer with me? To protect me from the elements?"

He chuckled and bowed. "I don't recall that being in the oath I took when I received my commission, but that works for me." Opening the door, he ushered her out into the cold night air. The seamstress took in a sharp breath as the cold air hit her lungs, but before she had a chance to feel the cold, Porthos had nestled her back against his chest, his dark blue winter dress cloak wrapped tightly around them.

"Will this work?" he inquired solicitously.

"I…believe so." Although she had been confident and flirtatious a moment ago, being held against his strong body flustered her more than she could have imagined—and when his lips touched the nape of her neck, she felt the stirrings of desire deep within her body, and shivered.

"Are you cold?"

"No….rather the opposite," she breathed, then turned. Staring into his warm brown eyes, she found herself picturing a future as Madame du Vallon. She saw him tossing Madeleine into the air as she squealed with delight, and imagined the three of them moving into a snug house in Paris—_close to the garrison of course_. The last image that flashed into her brain was that of she and Porthos together in bed, and she swallowed, her mouth suddenly incredibly dry.

Porthos, never a man to waste words, took one look at her face and folded her into his arms. As the silence of the evening surrounded them, he kissed her in a way that made her forget everything except the light of the moon, the brilliance of the stars, and a growing awareness that their relationship had irrevocably changed.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

D'Artagnan had passed the hours in the cellar by intensifying his efforts to win over Alexandre the rat. After an offering of some bits of stale bread, the two had progressed from open hostility to mutual tolerance. A bit of cheese had cemented the alliance, and d'Artagnan had soon taught the animal to run from one hand up his arm and over his shoulders to the other hand, with a duly proferred reward of breadcrumbs at the end.

He was contemplating the next trick he would teach the animal when a key turned in the rusty lock. Alexandre scuttled across the stone floor, his scaly tail dragging behind, and bolted into a hole between two bricks. The musketeer blinked as a shaft of light hit his eyes.

"You're in luck. It's visitin' hour. Now get on your feet!" The guard kicked d'Artagnan, causing him to curl up in pain as the man's heavy boot made contact with his leg just above the healing rat bite. He slowly dragged himself to his feet, leaning against the wall.

"Drink this. Doctor's orders."

D'Artagnan cautiously accepted the mug that was extended to him. "What is this?"

"The stuff that's keepin' your leg from rottin' off," answered the guard breezily. "But God gave you free will for a reason. If you've a hankerin' to join the ranks of the blessed angels before the week is out, feel free to refuse."

Glaring at him, d'Artagnan lifted the mug to his lips and drained it, wincing at the taste. He then handed the mug back, and asked warily, "Who is coming to visit?"

"No, you don't!" The man waggled a finger at him censoriously. "You can't trick me into spoilin' the surprise. But I will tell you that you will get a small taste of freedom tonight. Just enough to whet your appetite for more." Closing the door behind him, he began to laugh uproariously, the echos of his mirth reflecting back into the cell-much to d'Artagnan's discomfort.

* * *

**As much as I love Charlotte x Athos and Anne x Aramis, I so adore the idea of giving Porthos a love interest...he gets so little love in the show and in FF. **

**Any ideas as to who will visit d'Artagnan? Or what he'll be up to shortly?**


	32. Chapter 32

_"It is the passion that is in a kiss that gives to it its sweetness; it is the affection in a kiss that sanctifies it."_

Christian Nestell Bovee

* * *

**CHAPTER XXXII**

"Of course I'm happy for Athos," Annette replied slowly, raising her eyes to her husband's. "He was a good friend to me when I lived at la Fère. But he is **not** the man whom I vowed to love and honor until death do us part. He is **not** the man who has been by my side for the past six years, through good times and bad...and who has made me feel cherished and adored every moment. That man is **you**, Andrés."

The uneasiness that had been lurking in the pit of his stomach since his conversation with Milady slowly began to dissolve, and he reached for her, drawing her close to him.

"You **are** better," she whispered. "Do you feel well enough to come to bed? I detest sleeping without you."

He laughed and kissed the top of her head. "And I hate sleeping alone just as much. If you can help an injured, awkward falconer get up, there is nothing I would like more."

xxxxxxxxx

The walls of d'Artagnan's cell slowly began to morph into a kaleidoscope of colors. He watched, entranced, as blue and yellow lines swirled into green, then disappeared, only to be replaced by red and yellow circles that merged, creating a burning orange disc on the wall that resembled the sun.

He closed his eyes for an instant, overwhelmed by the brightness, and felt Alexandre's whiskers quiver against his fingers. Looking down at the rat, he saw the animal smiling at him. "You're my best friend, aren't you?" He picked up the rat and cuddled him close to his chest.

"That's right, I am." D'Artagnan froze, and looked down at the rodent. "I had to teach you a lesson in manners at the beginning…sorry about the bite. But you seem to be healing well."

"You..you can talk!" stammered d'Artagnan.

"Surely you aren't surprised? Animals have thoughts and feelings, just like humans. And I am certain that you are meant for great things, d'Artagnan….great things."

At that moment, the door swung open again, and the rat scuttled away. Two burly guards came in and forced d'Artagnan to a kneeling position. He attempted to struggle, but was overpowered by their sheer strength. In a matter of seconds, his hands had been tied behind his back, and a hood was thrown over his head.

Panic began to flood through his body as he heard footsteps. His muscles tensed as someone stopped a mere foot or two away, and his fear increased as the! metal barrel of a pistol was placed gently against his temple. "Why are you doing this?!" He hated how fragile his voice sounded.

"Why not?" came the lazy reply. "Of course, if you can be useful in some way, I** might** be persuaded to grant you a reprieve. Let me ask you, d'Artagnan…if we had an enemy in common…say someone who had killed your father….would you be willing to kill that man?"

The young musketeer's breathing quickened. "**Who** is he?! **Where** is he?! I need no encouragement to avenge my father's death!"

"That's what I was hoping you would say." D'Artagnan's hood was ripped off, and he found himself staring at a blond man of medium height whose very presence oozed haughtiness.

"You don't know me, d'Artagnan." His words were sympathetic, almost caressing. "But I know of you, and I know how you have suffered since your father's death. And all this time, the man responsible was right by your side. How does that make you feel?"

"Who is it?!" The musketeer's voice was urgent. "Tell me!"

"It was Athos...no matter what he told you, no matter what you thought…he was behind the whole thing...and it was done at the direction of the King."

D'Artagnan shook his head, colors exploding inside his brain as he tried to process this new information. "Are you sure?"

"Do I sound sure?" The voice sounded so resolute, so firm. D'Artagnan found it impossible to believe that he was not being told the truth.

"I was so stupid…so trusting." He took in a deep breath, and his voice hardened. "Athos will die tonight, by my hand….and so will the King!"

"I was hoping you'd say that," came the soothing answer. "You have the potential to be a great man, d'Artagnan…perhaps the greatest of them all. Tonight you will get a chance to have your revenge…and you will be ridding the earth of two people who deserve to be burning in hell right now."

The man nodded to the guards. "Cut him loose." At his command, d'Artagnan felt the bonds around his wrists fall away. He stood up, rubbing his wrists.

"How is your leg?"

"It's fine," answered d'Artagnan curtly. "I will need my weapons..they were confiscated when I was brought to this place."

"All in good time," replied his visitor. "First, I want to take a moment to review with you the layout of the palace…then your father **shall** be avenged."

xxxxxxxx

Charlotte had managed to drink some chamomile tea and eat a piece of bread, and felt much better. As she sat back against the pillows, Athos brushed his fingers against her cheek, his eyes softening. "You look much better. I was so afraid when you first fainted…all I could think of was the plague epidemic that was at Macherin several weeks ago."

She gave him a wan smile. "I think I am safe from the plague, Athos. I merely pushed myself a bit too hard."

"Well, I shall make very sure that does not happen again. I will be watching you like a hawk from now on, dear wife. If I notice you putting in long hours, or not eating, I shall immediately remove you to our quarters until I am satisfied that you are well-rested and well-fed."

"And what if I do not wish to be removed to said quarters?" she asked, raising an eyebrow as her soft brown eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Then I shall be forced to use appropriate methods of persuasion….up to and including actions that I well know you are fond of. You will be powerless to resist."

"Such as?"

He leaned over her, his blue eyes appearing more brilliant in the soft candlelight. "This," he muttered, that one word thick with desire. As his mouth met hers, she gave a small gasp of pleasure, and within moments, his hands had loosened the laces at the back of her dress.

"What are you doing?" she murmured, her lips curving up in a smile.

"Oh, I think you know the answer to that," he replied with a grin, his voice resonating with the timbre that drove her nearly wild every time he used it.

"Then I expect you will need to take your shirt off." Slipping her hands under the snowy linen, she slid her palms up the hard planes of his abdomen, reveling in the sensation of his muscles becoming taut to her touch. Easing the shirt over his head, she found her eyes drawn to his bare chest.

"Do you see something to your liking?" he inquired, a teasing look on his face.

"You could say that," she replied provocatively, her fingers tracing the scar on his left shoulder.

"I find it alarming how often you like to remind me of the night you branded me."

"It is not the branding itself that I remember so fondly…it is the image of a very brave man, seriously injured and delirious with fever, but devastatingly handsome and obviously a gentleman. Little did I know that one day…you would be mine."

"But **you** are mine, dearest, and as such, I must insist that you very quickly achieve a state of undress equivalent to mine…otherwise, I will be forced to deploy some of the tactics I was speaking of earlier." As he spoke, Athos had slowly slid her dress up to her waist, then slipped it over her head in one fluid motion.

"Much better," he muttered as he took in the sight of her lying beneath him in her white lace chemise. His eyes traced the chain around her neck that dipped below the neckline of her nightgown, and with one deft motion, he bared her to the waist.

"But this…" his breathing quickened as he saw the la Fère signet ring nestled on the smooth white skin between her breasts. "Charlotte, you are an exquisite, beautiful, intelligent woman….and to know that you are my wife…." His voice became husky, and he kissed her just under the place where the ring rested. As his beard glided over her sensitive skin, she moaned ever so softly, which only served to intensify his attentions.

Her hands desperately sought the waist of his breeches, and she began an earnest attempt to fully disrobe him. In an instant, his hands had joined hers, and they were finally free of the constraints of their clothes. She took his face in her hands, and the intensity in her eyes sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine. "Pay court to me, Athos….make me believe I am the only woman you have ever loved…even if…" she swallowed, "….it's not true. Because when I picture you making love to Milady…or Annette…I…" Her voice caught.

"Charlotte, there is no room in my heart for anyone but you," he murmured, his voice husky with emotion. "And I am telling you the absolute truth when I say that I have **never** loved anyone with my heart, soul, and mind the way I love you….and I mean to show you that tonight."

With those words, his mouth plunged to hers once more, and the ardency of his kiss took her breath away. As one of his hands slid underneath her, a pleasant throb of desire settled into her belly. "I love you," she whispered. "Never forget that, Athos…no matter what."

xxxxxx

D'Artagnan crept noiselessly down the main corridor of the chateau, careful to keep to the shadows._ My mind has never been clearer_, he thought with determination, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword as the memory of his father bleeding to death in his arms ran over and over in his brain.

_Damn you, Athos! You were so convincing! You were the man I wanted to model myself after…but now you will be the man who dies by my hand. It is fitting that the duel I challenged you to at the garrison ends here...with no Porthos or Aramis to intervene._

Once he reached Athos' suite, he halted at the door, straining his ears to catch any sound from within. Once he was satisified that his comrade was likely fast asleep, he turned the handle of the door a fraction of an inch, and heard a soft click as the door slid open. Stealing into the room, he shut the door silently behind him. The moon, which had illuminated the hallway just a moment earlier, had slid behind the clouds. In the dim light, the musketeer made out the large four poster bed. The curtains were drawn, and all was quiet.

_You are mine now, Athos!_ As he advanced towards the bed, a deer bounded in front of him, and he slashed at the air with his dagger, staring at the animal as it crashed into the fireplace and disappeared. His heart beating wildly, he turned and focused on the bed. His vision alternately sharpened and blurred, and he squinted to try to focus his eyesight. As he neared the bed, he saw a figure suddenly sit up, and a voice called out, "Who's there?"

In a flash, d'Artagnan threw the curtain aside and aimed his dagger straight at the shadow in front of him. A scream tore through the night air. As Porthos and Denise stood in the corridor, still saying good night to each other an hour after they had first begun the process, the musketeer tensed.

Denise looked up at him, her face full of anxiety. "That sounds like Charlotte!"

Porthos set off at a run, and reached Athos' suite in a matter of seconds. As he wrenched the door open, the sight that met his eyes shocked him.

Charlotte lay sprawled across the bed, her nightdress soaked with blood. Athos knelt over her, trembling as he desperately tried to stanch the flow of blood from a wound in her lower abdomen.

"Who did this?" Porthos' words came out as a growl.

Athos looked up at him, his eyes full of pain. "D'Artagnan," he whispered, nodding to a still form on the floor.

* * *

**Next time...the aftermath. **

**Much love to all who are reading this story! I so appreciate all the reviews and follows...they truly make my day!**


	33. Chapter 33

_"Medicine is not only a science; it is also an art. It does not consist of compounding pills and plasters; it deals with the very processes of life, which must be understood before they may be guided."_

Paracelsus

* * *

**CHAPTER XXXIII**

"WHAT?" Porthos felt his body go numb. "D'Artagnan?"

"Porthos, he was like a man possessed! He's been drugged...or worse! Get Aramis! NOW!"

A gasp came from the door as Denise's gaze fell on the scene. Her hand flew to her mouth to stop the cry that arose to her lips as she beheld her beloved cousin stabbed and bleeding.

"I'll get him!" Without hesitating, Denise turned and flew down the hallway.

"Porthos, what do I do?" Athos' voice was despairing, and his hands were visibly shaking.

"Here, let me take over," Porthos said gently. "I'll hold pressure until Aramis comes. You just use that moody, magnetic voice of yours, and she'll come 'round alright."

Normally Athos would have thrown him a glare, but Porthos' words barely seemed to register in his brain. He moved to Charlotte's head, and took her hand in his, pressing it to his lips. The coldness of her fingers shook him to his core. "I love you, Charlotte! Hang on! Please..for me…" his words began to choke with emotion. "I have so much to make up to you…"

Porthos held a steady grip on Charlotte's wound, but despite his strength, the sheet soon was soaked with blood. He had never felt so helpless_. God, I hope Aramis is in good enough shape to help her._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Aramis had finally been able to shift himself into a comfortable position, and had fallen asleep with Anne curled in his arms. "I can only hold you for a short time," he had said, his usually mischievous brown eyes serious. "There is no way you can risk staying here until morning…I won't let you."

"Very well," Anne had said resignedly. But the instant his arms were around her, she had fallen into a blissful sleep, intermittently murmuring his name in a way he found entrancing. He had been soon to follow her into slumber, lulled by her quiet, even breathing.

The hammering on the door woke him up with a jolt. Anne gasped and sat up abruptly, fear plain on her face. Aramis laid a hand on her arm to calm her, although his heart was racing in his chest.

"Who's there?" he called out sharply.

"Aramis! It's Denise. Charlotte-she's been stabbed! For God's sake, hurry!"

Aramis slid out of the bed and had his breeches on within seconds. "Hide in the wardrobe!" he hissed. "Once I'm gone, you can slip out of the room and no one will be the wiser."

Anne nodded, and scrambled to throw her dressing gown on. She then vanished into the large oak wardrobe, closing the door behind her.

"Coming!" He unlocked the door as he struggled to get his shirt on. Finally pulling the linen over his head, he opened the door to see Denise standing in front of him, her hands nervously twisting around the fabric of her skirt.

"What happened?" he demanded as grabbed his medical kit and began to follow her, moving as quickly as his healing side would allow him to.

"Oh Aramis…it was d'Artagnan!" Her voice rose in panic. "He must have been drugged…or brainwashed! He stabbed Charlotte in the stomach, then I—I suppose Athos must have knocked him unconscious. He's lying on the floor."

_He stabbed Charlotte in the stomach. No…not her…not the baby—the baby Athos doesn't even know about yet!_

He tried to force the fear he felt into the back of his mind, and took a deep breath. "This is a nightmare. Treville must be told. Denise, can you fetch him?"

She nodded.

"Thank you." He squeezed her arm gratefully. "I'll do everything I can."

"I know you will," the seamstress whispered. Her eyes misting with tears, she turned and raced down the hallway.

Squaring his shoulders, Aramis took a deep breath and entered the room. His dark brown eyes fell on Athos, who was completely devoid of his usual calm. In fact, Aramis could never remember seeing his friend so full of panic. _He's terrified_.

Approaching the bed, he placed a hand on Athos' shoulder. "I'm here, my friend."

"Thank God," breathed the older man. "Aramis, I'm so sorry for earlier. I have made a mess of everything, and now I have no idea what…" his eyes fell on his wife, and he choked up.

"You're doing fine," the medic replied soothingly. "Just distract her...why don't you recite all the love poems you've written for her? Wait, perhaps not… I doubt you have the gift with a pen that I do. Just tell her how much she means to you. Women adore that sort of thing, trust me."

Athos nodded mechanically, then bent to kiss his wife on the forehead, murmuring softly to her.

Porthos glanced up and grinned. "Glad to see a professional…and a lucid one at that…in the house."

Aramis motioned for the big man to step aside so he could examine the wound. "Ah, the painkillers are long gone," he said dismissively. "Thanks to the healing hands of this sweet woman." He leaned over and spoke to the unconscious Charlotte, smoothing her hair back from her forehead... "Charlotte, it's Aramis. I've got to take a look at your abdomen. I'll try to be as gentle as I can. Athos is right by your side, holding your hand, okay?"

He drew out his dagger and carefully enlarged the tear in her nightdress where the knife had sliced through it. "Porthos, a clean cloth, please..and the bottle of wine."

At that moment, Treville burst into the room, followed by Denise. "Good God!"

His gaze fixed on the wound, Aramis' voice carried across the room, firm, but calm. "Captain, please be so good as to secure d'Artagnan. He is apparently under the influence of some hallucinogenic drug. Until it is out of his system, he must be considered dangerous."

His face grim, the Captain set to work tying up d'Artagnan.

"More light, please." Aramis furrowed his brow as Porthos held a candle up above his head. "Now the wine." As he poured the alcohol over Charlotte's wound, she moaned softly, but barely flinched.

"I'm here, my love," Athos murmured, pressing her hand to his lips. "I will not leave your side, I promise."

Aramis swore under his breath.

Athos looked up sharply. "What is it?"

"There's an area of active bleeding that I will need to cauterize. I just don't like.." His voice trailed off as he considered the risks inherent in burning a pregnant woman's flesh to close to her womb.

"Aramis, what are you not telling me? Please, I beg you, don't keep me in the dark!"

_It is not my place to reveal her pregnancy-Charlotte did not wish for him to know yet_. Aramis met Athos' eyes calmly. "I merely hate the idea of causing Charlotte pain, and regret that you will have to witness it. But there is no way around it. Porthos, please heat the cauterizing iron in my medical kit." Although outwardly serene, as Aramis watched the big man hold the cauterizing iron in the flames of the fire, he began to silently pray. _Magnificat anima mea Dominum; Et exultavit spiritus meus in Deo salutari me…_

xxxxxxx

Charlotte could hear voices dimly in the distance, and looked around her, confused by her surroundings. It seemed like just minutes ago that she had fallen asleep in Athos' arms, but now she found herself in a long corridor that was lit by torches fastened to the stone walls.

The warmth of her husband's body had faded, and she shivered slightly, wrapping her arms around her torso. She was barefoot, and the cold, damp flagstone under her toes seemed to chill her to the core.

Silence. She listened for a moment, then heard a coquettish laugh, and moved towards the sound. Coming up to a carved walnut door on her left, she found it ajar, and gently pushed it open, entering the room.

The room was awash in brilliant candlelight, and a shining parquet floor reflected the dancing flames. Her eyes caught sight of Athos leaning against the far wall, talking earnestly to someone standing just inside a curtained alcove. He swayed slightly, and Charlotte was familiar enough with his body language to realize that he was quite drunk. Then the rippling laugh floated across the air again, and Milady de Winter emerged from behind the curtain, looking as ravishingly beautiful as Charlotte had ever seen her.

The petite brunette was clad in a dress of sage green silk, with a crimson bodice that highlighted her pristine, creamy skin. Her hair was arranged in an elegant chignon, curls of shining hair cascading down her neck, ornamented with tiny seed pearls.

Athos' eyes shone as he looked down at Anne, the corner of his mouth quirking into the smoldering smile that had always made Charlotte weak in the knees. She tried to call out to him, but found that she could not make a sound. As she watched, frozen to the spot, Anne sidled up to her ex-husband and began to toy with his leather.

"I know you suffered greatly after Charlotte died, and I wager that you thought you would never again take a woman to your bed. But...you feel it too, don't you? The throb of desire, coursing through your veins?"

Her fingertips slid lightly up the side of his neck to caress the path of his carotid artery, his pulse quickening at her touch. "Always so stoic, Athos," she murmured, her seductive green eyes slanting up at him. "But do not for a moment think I can't feel your body reacting to me."

"I..." He started to speak, then stopped, indecision reflected in his face. At that instant, Anne pressed her body against him, and his mouth crashed against hers. Athos pulled away for just an instant, then resumed kissing her, his need for the comfort of her touch overwhelming him.

Charlotte felt as if her soul had been forcibly removed from her body. As she stared at them, she suddenly found herself out in the corridor again. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she moved ahead as if in a dream, and tried the door of the next room.

Entering it, she saw a fire cheerily burning in the hearth. Athos was seated in a chair by the fire, Catalina snuggled against his chest. She had fallen asleep, and Annette looked up at the two of them as she knelt by the chair. She paused for a moment, then spoke softly.

"I know this has been a difficult day for you, as it has for me."

"It's so hard…" his voice trailed off, then he forced himself to continue. "So hard to believe that it's already been a year since we buried Andrés and Charlotte."

Charlotte felt her body turn ice cold. _Am I really dead? Or is this just a dream?_

Annette sighed, and laid her head on his lap. "Perhaps this was all meant to be…to bring us full circle so we could appreciate the second chance we have been given. Life is so short, Athos. We need to thank God for every day that we have together."

His hand stroked her hair tenderly. "If I hadn't had you in my life, I would have surely gone mad after losing Charlotte."

The scene changed in front of Charlotte's eyes, and she found herself on a street in Paris that she vaguely recognized._ The Rue St. Denis….just a five minute walk from the garrison._ It was well after dark, and the fog was thick. She saw a body sprawled on the sidewalk, and gasped. The black pauldron was instantly recognizable, as was the hat that lay next to the still form.

"Athos!" She finally was able to will her body to move, and was at his side in seconds. Tears sprung to her eyes as she saw the yellow tint of his skin. His abdomen was swollen, the belt straining around his waist. An empty wine bottle was clutched tightly in his hand.

"Speak to me!" she sobbed, clutching at his hand, only to find it cold and limp. She pressed her lips to his, and felt them lifeless.

"NOOO!" she screamed, her voice reverberating off the cobblestones as Athos' body vanished.

A hand was placed on her shoulder, and she heard a voice that she had almost forgotten.

"Charlotte, darling. Don't grieve."

"Mama?" She looked up, and was filled with emotion when she saw her mother, as beautiful as she had looked the the week before she had died. "So it **is** true….I am dead."

"No, my love. You are merely at a point where you have the luxury of making a decision. I did not have the chance, as the fever took me so quickly. Your life, however, is hanging in the balance, and the will to live can make all the difference."

"But so far…." Charlotte swallowed, her voice quavering as she stood up and hugged her mother, the tears flowing freely now. "So far…all I have seen is scenes of Athos' life after my death. It seems as if my fate is already pre-determined."

"Have you allowed your mind to explore the alternative?" her mother asked softly, kissing her forehead. "Come with me, and I will show you." Taking her daughter by the hand, she led her down the street. "Walk up those steps, and you will find the door unlocked. Go into the second room on the right, and you will see."

Charlotte slowly mounted the stairs, then turned to see her mother disappear. Tears of frustration coursed down her face, and she pushed the door open, then froze as she heard the cry of an infant. Forcing her feet forward, she moved down the hallway, and stood at the door of the room, her heart suddenly full.

She saw herself lying in a bed, exhausted, but exhilarated. A newborn baby was in her arms, and Athos was beside her, his eyes full of wonder. "I love him already," he said, his voice trembling. "Is that…possible?"

"Of course," she heard herself say as she kissed the baby, inhaling the delicious smell of his downy hair. "After all, I fell in love with you the first day I met you." Looking up at him, she saw her son's blue eyes reflected in those of her husband, and smiled. "You will be an amazing father."

In that instant, everything went dark, and Charlotte felt a searing pain jolt her body. She dimly sensed the smell of burning flesh, and began to pani_c. I'm on fire! Am I dead? Have I gone to hell?_

* * *

**Next time...the fate of Charlotte...and the baby...and Anne is confronted as she leaves Aramis' room.**

**This has been an insane week for me at work, so apologies for the slow update. Hopefully the next will be posted in a few days...thank you to all of you out there who are continuing to read! Season 3 is hopefully only 6 months away!**


	34. Chapter 34

_"Let us live for the beauty of our own reality."_

Charles Lamb

* * *

**CHAPTER XXXIV**

Anne waited until Aramis and Denise's footsteps had receded, then opened the door of the wardrobe just a fraction. Satisfied that the room was empty, she slipped out of her hiding space, drawing her dressing robe closer around her body. Scooping up her cloak, she threw it around her shoulders and fastened it, then closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, forcing herself to channel the inner calm expected of her as the Queen of France.

Listening with her ear pressed to the door, she heard only silence. As she cautiously opened the door, she saw with relief the corridor was empty. Entering the hall and shutting the door behind her as noiselessly as possible, she took several steps, then nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard a cold voice echo behind her. "An urgent errand, Your Majesty? It's a bit late for you to be traveling the halls unescorted, so I would have to assume that only a matter of the **utmost i**mportance would have you up at this hour."

Even before she turned, Anne knew that she would be looking into the hooded, predatory eyes of the Comte de Rochefort. _You are the Queen_, she told herself, then slowly pivoted to face the nobleman.

"Thank you for your concern, Comte, but I have matters well in hand." As she began to move away, he seized her arm, and his voice lowered to a thinly veiled attempt at courtesy. "I believe you misunderstand me, Your Majesty. The King has given me leave to review **all** security arrangements for the chateau. I find it unconscionable that no guard provided you with a proper escort. In order to prevent another such egregious lapse of security, I will need you to give me a detailed accounting of the route you traveled from your chambers. Clearly Captain Treville and his men have once again failed the Crown."

Anne, thinking quickly, drew herself up regally. "You forget yourself, Rochefort. It is **I** who ask the questions, not you. I owe an explanation to no one but the King, but I** will** deign to inform you that I am on my way to see for myself the condition of Charlotte d'Athos. She has been stabbed and is critically injured."

Rochefort seemed to pale for just an instant, then recovered smoothly. "_Charlotte_ d'Athos? How is it possible that someone would attack such a lovely young woman?"

"How indeed?" Anne echoed, narrowing her eyes. "I suggest you spend your time pondering **that** question, Comte, instead of focusing your energies on so-called threats to my safety are merely a product of your overactive imagination. Despite what you may think, Captain Treville has matters well in hand." She swept past him, leaving Rochefort to wonder how his well-designed plan had gone so terribly wrong.

xxxx

The moan of agony that came from Charlotte, combined with the odor of her burning flesh, nearly drove Athos wild with despair. He buried his face in the mass of auburn hair that curled around her head, and began to speak to her from his heart.

"Have I ever told you when I first began to fall in love with you? It was the night I had been shot… you stood up to the Cardinal and the royal physician, refusing to let them bleed me. You were **so** confident, **so**…beautiful in your conviction. The Cardinal accused you of witchcraft…and worse." He paused, breathing in the faint scent of lavender from her skin. "Yet you risked the wrath of the most powerful man in France…for an injured musketeer whom you had never met. That took amazing courage." His lips brushed against her hair, and the acrid smell of cauterized flesh receded into the background.

"I have been thinking….about many things, actually, but what I meant to tell you earlier-before I was distracted by my efforts to pay court to you in the way you deserve—is that I want us to have a home-a** real** home, not my bachelor's quarters at the garrison-when we get back to Paris. I even have a house in mind—Treville forced me to go look at it before we left Paris. The exterior is cream-colored stucco, and the building itself is two stories tall, with thick stone walls that will keep us snug in winter. There is a large courtyard in back, with a walled garden that has an arbor I **know** you will love...and there are trellises! We can plant climbing roses...even the purple morning glories you adore. I'll plant whatever you want..all you have to do is tell me." A wistful note crept into his voice, and he tried to lighten the mood. "After all, I live to obey your commands."

In response, Charlotte's breathing seemed to even out. He held his own breath for an instant, feeling a tiny bit of hope slip into his soul. He brought her fingers to his lips once again, and kissed her hand, which still felt cold as ice.

"Oh, and I've looked, and there is plenty of room for you to start an herb garden. The house itself is well-made, and the rooms are spacious, with beautiful exposed beams that remind me of my father's hunting lodge. I've already decided that our bedroom will be the second room on the right off the main hallway." A trace of a smile found its way to his lips as he imagined Charlotte's reaction. "If you agree, of course," he added hastily. "It faces east, and I could not help but imagine waking up with sunlight flooding through the window...spilling on to that gorgeous auburn hair of yours…and seeing your sweet smile when you open your eyes and look at me, still half in the embrace of your dreams."

He felt her fingers move, ever so slightly, seeming to seek the warmth of his lips.

"Aramis! She moved just now… I'm sure of it!"

The medic, tired but satisfied with his work, looked up and grinned. "I don't doubt it….you're quite the romantic, Athos…I had no idea. In fact, I think I'm starting to fall in love with you myself."

Athos glared at him, then relief washed through his body, and his face relaxed. "I don't know how to thank you, Aramis. You are always there for me…and Charlotte….whenever we need you."

"Well, you can repay me by naming your firstborn René…or Renée, as the gender of the child dictates," he said lightly. "Now focus on your beloved…and make sure you pitch that voice to the lower register that you are well aware makes her swoon…don't deny it! I've seen you in action, my friend."

The hope that Athos had felt moments earlier began to flood into his being as Charlotte's hand began to warm in his own.

He turned his attention back to her, stroking her hair tenderly. "Since Aramis now insists that we have to name our firstborn after him, I should mention that there **is** plenty of room for children….not that I want you perpetually pregnant, but with as much….joy as we find in each other, it's bound to happen sooner or later. There's a small room adjacent to our bedroom which would be perfect for a nursery. And I forgot to mention the best part of all…it's on the Rue St. Denis…just a 5 minute walk from the garrison."

Charlotte had vaguely been aware of Athos' voice. She found it hard to follow the thread of his words, and it seemed sometimes as if he were speaking to someone other than her. Gradually, some words began to stand out in her brain. "Firstborn…children…Rue St. Denis…just a five minute walk from the garrison."

She gasped in shock, and felt her eyes open without any effort at all. This surprised her greatly, as the very act of breathing had seemed incredibly difficult only moments ago. Athos' face swam before her, a blur of blue eyes, pale skin, and shaggy beard. She tried to speak, but could not manage to make a sound. Her mother's words came back to her in a rush.. _Your life, however, is hanging in the balance, and your will to live can make all the difference._

"Charlotte! Thank God!" The relief in her husband's voice sent a rush of joy into her heart…as did his reference to a Higher Being. Athos' family had not been especially religious, and what little faith he had possessed at one time had been severely shaken by Thomas' death and Milady's betrayal. Charlotte had always found comfort in her own belief, and fervently hoped that Athos would agree to have their children raised with the knowledge that they were loved-both by God and their parents.

"I want to live," she finally managed to whisper, her words barely audible.

"I should hope so," commented Aramis dryly. "I would be quite cross if I'd been sweating over you for the past hour with you doing your best to defeat my gallant efforts. And don't **even** get me started on how Athos would react if he thought you were giving up. **All** is well, Charlotte," he added softly, squeezing her hand in a way that let her know that the life of her child had been preserved.

Tears came to Athos' eyes, and his voice trembled. "I…thought I had lost you. Charlotte, please, **never** do that to me again."

"If you can keep potential assassins away from me, I promise to do my best," she murmured, and closed her eyes again, the effort of talking spending what little energy she had managed to marshal. _Our baby is alive_, she thought, and drifted happily off to sleep.

xxxxxxx

Rochefort stalked into the room he was using as an office, and slammed the door, glaring at the blond man who sat casually in a chair in front of the fire. Milady was perched on the armrest next to him, and looked up at Rochefort expectantly. "Well? What news?"

"What news?! I'll tell you...apparently my younger brother, true to form, made a mess of the whole plan! Gilles, can you do **nothing** right?"

"You are being rather dramatic," came the lazy reply. Ice-blue eyes, a mirror image of those of the heir to the Rochefort dynasty, fixed on his own. "You said yourself that it is never quite predictable how humans will respond to the elixir that Milady procured. And d'Artagnan **was** moved to violence…he just went after the wrong target. That is hardly **my** fault."

Rochefort seized his brother's doublet, and hauled him to his feet, slamming him against the wall. "You **never** change, do you? Still content to ride on the crest of **my** success, while you lift **not a finger** to aid me? I am **done** with you." He released his grip suddenly, and wiped his hands on his shirt fastidiously, as to remove every trace of contact with the man in front of him. "Leave, before I am tempted to do something more than chastise you verbally. And if you **ever** cross my path again, be forewarned…it will be as my sworn enemy, not my brother."

Gilles calmly adjusted his clothes, then nodded at Milady. "My compliments, Milady de Winter. I hope to have the pleasure of your company again soon…under more hospitable circumstances, shall we say." Brushing past his brother, he left, closing the door behind him with a bang.

Milady lifted her green eyes to regard Rochefort intently. "Was that wise? Don't you have enough enemies already without alienating your own flesh and blood?"

Rochefort stared at her, his own eyes growing colder than ever. "As if **you** were an expert on cultivating allies."

"Oh, but I am," she purred, and picked up a dagger that was lying on the desk, partially hidden by a sheaf of paper. "After all, who was the force behind creating your own personal group of vigilantes?" Her fingers caressed the blade of the weapon, running over the relief of a black rose, a pair of angel wings affixed to it. "It **certainly** wasn't you."

* * *

**So, now you have the answer...the baby lives! Milady does seem to be pushing the envelope with Rochefort, doesn't she? But it is what she does best... I also couldn't resist having Anne put the evil Comte in his place... I cheered every time she stood up to him in the series.**

**A BIG thank you from the bottom of my heart for all who continue to read, review, and follow. This story is a labor of love, and I'm so happy to have you all along for the ride!**

**Next time...Charlotte continues to recover, and Denise seeks comfort in the arms of Porthos...meanwhile, the threat of the Archangels continues to loom over Athos.**


	35. Chapter 35

_"Of all the things you choose in life, you don't get to choose what your nightmares are. You don't pick them; they pick you."_

John Irving

* * *

**CHAPTER XXXV**

As he handed the cautery iron to Aramis, Porthos saw Denise's face turn white. "I'd best get Denise out of her," he muttered. "She looks about ready to pass out."

Aramis took one look at the seamstress and nodded. "Good idea."

The big man was at her side in an instant, and put his arm around her protectively. "You don't need to see this," he murmured. "Athos is with her, and she couldn't be in better hands with Aramis."

Denise swallowed. "I do feel a bit faint."

"Let's go." Without waiting, he steered her out the door, closing it just as sizzle of the iron was heard, followed by Charlotte's cry of pain.

"Just a minute." Denise stopped, and leaned against the wall. "I think I'm going to be sick."

Thinking quickly, Porthos seized a potted plant. "In here!"

"But that's…" Denise began to protest, then began to retch in earnest.

Porthos lowered her to a sitting position, holding out the plant in front of her.

"Oh no, Porthos!" she moaned in between vomiting. "The plant…it's ruined!"

He fought the urge to laugh. "Sweetheart, the plant is the least of our worries right now. I bet the King has a thousand more just like it."

The wave of nausea having passed, she leaned against him and closed her eyes, her face damp with sweat. "Not the best way to make an impression on an attractive man."

"Luckily you are way past makin' a first impression," he muttered, putting the pot down and scooping her into his arms.

A servant passed by, and Porthos stopped her. "The lady felt a bit...unwell." He jerked his head towards the plant. "Would you be able take care of the plant? I'd be very grateful."

"Yes, sir," replied the young woman, gingerly picking up the pot and disappearing.

"It is not necessary to carry me," Denise insisted, her voice still weak. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not," he answered firmly as he made his way down the hall. "What you need is to wash up and have a cup of tea."

Reaching the door of his room, he pushed it open, then made his way over to the bed. It was a four poster tester bed, beautifully crafted out of oak and graced with handcarved panels. The panels displayed scenes from a royal hunt, with a stag leaping through the forest, pursued by the King and his courtiers.

He lowered her onto the pillows, then pulled a blanket over her.

"Porthos, I'm fine, really. I'm not made of porcelain."

He sat down on the bed next to her, and gently took her hand. "You could have fooled me," he murmured. "Your complexion is so smooth, so perfect…you look like one of those little china dolls you see in the fancy shop windows."

She blushed, a little color returning to her face.

"That's more like it," he said, squeezing her hand and grinning. "Now let me be your knight in shinin' armor. I suspect you don't get to be spoiled too often, and I like playin' the part…it suits me, after all. I've got the leather, the weapons, the big warhorse—everything…only problem is the horse is black, not white."

Denise smiled up at him. "You're still my hero, no matter what color your horse."

"Or my skin?" he asked, his expression becoming unreadable.

"Porthos, that doesn't matter…"

"Trust me, it does," he replied, averting his eyes as his voice dropped.

She reached a palm up to his cheek and turned his face to meet her eyes. "Every relationship has its challenges, Porthos. You have no idea what you have done for me. Your kindness, your generosity, your warmth…." she halted, and steadied her voice, "…it has awakened a part of me that I thought had died along with Alain. If the worst obstacle we ever face is prejudice from ignorant people, we shall be lucky indeed."

The relief Porthos felt was immediate. He had been meaning to bring up the issues they might face if they embarked upon a relationship, and had laid awake at night trying to think of the proper approach. This was not a new challenge for him, and there had been other women, of course. With Flea, the color of his skin had truly made no difference. The Court of Miracles had shown him that abject poverty often served to break down many barriers. Men and women, black and white, firm and infirm, worked together to scratch a living from the dust.

When he had first ventured out into the world at large as a soldier, he had known things would be different. However, it still stung when he saw eligible women who were eager to capture the attention of Athos or Aramis avert their eyes when he walked by. Others had been more daring, and had danced or flirted with him at social gatherings. However, those overtures were almost invariably quickly nipped in the bud by outraged fathers or brothers.

At times, the yearning for female companionship had been overwhelming, and Aramis would convince him to join him at Madame Angel's for an evening. Porthos had no illusions that the women there had anything on their mind other than his coin, and after his last visit, he had sworn that he would never go back again. Now, as his mind processed Denise's words, he felt as if he was teetering on the edge of a precipice. _If I let myself fall, really fall…there will be no turning back._

As if reading his thoughts, Denise said lightly, "If there is a basin and a ewer of water available, you might find continued conversation with me a bit more…pleasing. I really am not at my best right now."

"What was I thinkin'? Of course," he replied apologetically, jumping up to procure the washbasin. "I'll let you have a moment to do—whatever it is you women do-and I'll be back with a tea tray in just a bit." Kissing her lightly on the top of her head, he left, shutting the door noiselessly behind him.

Denise stood up carefully, allowing herself a moment for the dizziness to pass, then rinsed her mouth, grateful that the household steward had also provided some fennel seeds to freshen the breath. As she chewed on them, she began to feel better, and walked to the window, hoping that a bit of fresh air would do her good. As she pushed back the heavy curtain, she noticed a pear-shaped stringed instrument lying on a trunk near the window.

Picking it up, she recognized it as a finely crafted cittern. It was about two feet long, with a flat back and curved sides made of hard maple wood. The front of the instrument was crafted from a softer wood that she thought was likely spruce. The pegbox at the top was fancifully shaped to resemble the head of a peacock. Her fingers travelled down the long, elegant neck, tentatively plucking at the four sets of two strings. She had only ever seen a cittern played at large festivals in her village, and the melodious sound of the strings entranced her.

"Do you play?" she looked up to see Porthos setting down a large tray on the small table next to the bed.

"No," she flushed, and put the instrument back, feeling as if she had been caught doing something inappropriate. "My musical skills are limited to singing. Doing two different things with my hands…it's just too difficult for me."

"I find it hard to believe these hands would not show considerable skill in areas other than sewing," he murmured, coming over to her and taking her small fingers in his, his large thumbs gently stroking the palms.

Denise felt her mouth go dry as she met his eyes. "Are we still talking about playing the cittern?"

"Of course," he said easily, his eyes dancing. "What else would I be referring to?"

She glanced up at him through her long, dark lashes, enjoying the small thrill that ran through her body. He's flirting. "I have no idea," she replied demurely. "Are your hands skilled in the ways of the cittern?"

He chuckled, and kissed her hands, reaching for the instrument. "As a matter of fact, you are lookin' at_ le garçon avec les doigts magiques-_the boy with the magic fingers._"_ She looked at him questioningly as he began to pluck the strings very lightly, picking out a simple tune. "In the Court of Miracles, every talent you have gives you a better chance at survivin' another day. I used to work with a blind man who was quite good at playin' the cittern. I watched the hat in front of 'im…made sure people didn't steal the coin that was given to 'im when he played on the street. In return, he taught me to play. When he died a year later, I had another skill besides pickpocketin'…made it easier to earn an honest livin."

"That must have been difficult," Denise said softly.

"I didn't like stealin' from folk," he replied slowly. "My mother was an honest woman, and every time I picked a pocket, I could hear her voice in my head, tellin' me I'd disappointed her." He shrugged. "But until I got big enough to make my own way, I was property of the King of the Court…just like all the other kids were. The King made sure we were fed and had a place to sleep, and in return, we did….what we were asked to do." He paused for a minute, then fixed his gaze on her. "I'm not proud of what I did, and I hope to God that no child of mine ever has to grow up the way I did."

Denise sat back on the bed, and tucked her feet underneath her. "Play for me…please?"

"How could I refuse such a lovely lady?" he responded with a wink, his eyes warming at her request. He began to play a lively air, and she watched his fingers suddenly begin to skim across the strings. As she listened, she found herself amazed that such a large, burly man could handle a delicate instrument with such care and grace.

Her mind began to wander, and in an instant, she was transported back to the moment in the kitchen when Porthos had kissed her. _He held me in much the same way_. She vaguely became aware of the fact that Porthos was speaking to her. "I'm sorry," she murmured apologetically, a pink flush stealing onto her cheeks. "I was lost in my own thoughts for a moment. What did you say?"

Porthos glanced at her, his eyes twinkling. "And where **were** your thoughts?"

"Elsewhere," she answered evasively.

"I see," he muttered with a smile. "I had merely asked you if you had any requests."

A reply immediately sprung to her mind. _Do not say it. Do not!_ "I was wondering…" she hesitated and looked down at her lap, twisting the fabric of her skirt between her fingers as she often did when nervous.

He sensed her internal struggle, and put down the instrument, kneeling in front of her and tilting her chin up so he could look into her eyes. "You can trust me, Denise."

His warm brown eyes were so honest and sincere, that without thinking, she placed her hands on his shoulders. "Would you….would you… hold me?" she asked shyly. "Just for a moment? I had forgotten how wonderful it feels to be held tenderly by someone…you care about."

His face softened, and he stood up with a smile. "Come here, you," he murmured, drawing her against his chest and wrapping his arms around her. "If only all my missions were this pleasant," he whispered, as Denise closed her eyes, listening to the reassuring thrum of his heart against her ear.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Athos had watched over Charlotte until the small hours of the morning. They were alone now. An exhausted Aramis had returned to his room to rest. D'Artagnan had been carried off by Treville and two of the servants and placed in one of the smaller bedrooms. The Captain himself was watching over the Gascon, uneasy about leaving him with an unfamiliar guard while some unknown drug was still in his system.

Despite his best attempts to stay awake, sleep had finally claimed Athos as well. He found himself in the forest near Fontainebleau. It was bitterly cold, and he was having a difficult time making his way through the snow drifts. The barking of several dogs could be heard in the distance, and they began to bay as they came closer. _They have my scent now. It's all over._ Despite instinctively knowing that any attempt to elude his pursuers would only be an exercise in futility, he continued to try to move forward. However, he found himself unable to move. Looking down at his feet, he saw with despair that they had frozen to the ground.

In that instant, the pack of dogs broke out of the trees, the animals growling low in their throats as they began to circle him. He looked around desperately, trying to find any means of escape. When his gaze focused back on the snow in front of him, a gallows had loomed up out of the ground.

A hooded executioner beckoned to him, his bony finger crooked at an unnatural angle. Athos' feet suddenly began to move against his will, and within seconds, his head was in the noose. As he looked down at the snow covered ground, he saw Charlotte in front of him, holding a single red rose. Her eyes were filled with tears, and as the noose was tightened, his vision began to blur.

"NO…NO…NOOOOOO!"

He screamed as he was suddenly pulled up into the air, feet kicking frantically as he tried to touch the ground. _It was so close…he was sure if he could just get a toehold on the snow, he would be able to breathe again…so close….._

He woke up with a start, gasping for air. "Athos…Athos…" he heard Charlotte's weak voice, and scrubbed his face with his hands, then glanced at the other side of the bed.

"Are you okay?" Her brown eyes were enormous in her pale, drawn face.

"I'm fine, my love," he murmured, sliding next to her and taking her hand. "It was just a dream, nothing more."

"You were screaming," she whispered, her expression troubled. "You sounded terrified."

"It was just my mind playing tricks on me," he said reassuringly. "Nothing that a kiss from my sweet wife can't put to rest." Leaning over, he touched his lips to hers. "Are you warm enough? Do you need some water? Some pain medication?"

She shook her head. "Just you."

He slid next to her and took her hand in his. "I'm not going anywhere," he said, his voice low and comforting. She sighed contentedly and closed her eyes again, her fingers curling up in his warm hand. As he saw how fragile and vulnerable she still was, he began to truly feel uneasy for the first time about the summons from the Archangels of Justice.

* * *

**As I learned when researching instruments from this time period, the cittern is a stringed instrument that is a forerunner of the modern mandolin. I'm not sure why, but I just had the urge to write Porthos as a musician...**

**Thank you for continuing to read, review, and favorite! Your support is much appreciated!**

**Next time...Rochefort and Milady return.**


	36. Chapter 36

_"Life is like a game of cards. The hand you are dealt is determinism; the way you play it is free will."_

Jawaharlal Nehru

* * *

**CHAPTER XXXVI**

"What troubles you?" asked Porthos in a low voice, his chest vibrating pleasantly against Denise's ear.

She sighed, and nestled closer against him. "I suppose…I suppose it is how uncertain and transient happiness often is. Granted, that is the nature of our lives of humans, but still…"

"I know exactly what you mean," he murmured. "When my mother was alive, we were dirt poor, but happy…and when she died, it was as if my soul had been shattered. Everything I knew of love and kindness, patience and gentleness…it was gone in an instant."

"Come, let's sit and talk for a bit." Denise took his hand and led him to the thick rug in front of the slate fireplace. He raised an eyebrow at her. "On the floor?"

"Why not?" she replied with a shy smile. "I've never been one for fancy furniture."

"A woman after my own heart," he observed, lowering himself easily to the floor. He held out a hand and drew her down to the rug, then settled her back against his chest. They sat in silence for some time, his arms wrapped around her waist.

As their bodies molded to each other, the warmth of the fire seemed to deepen the intimacy of the moment. "It must have been hard," she whispered, tilting her head back just enough to allow her cheek to brush against his beard.

He instinctively knew she was picking up the thread of the earlier conversation. "No child of five is ever ready to lose his mother, especially when she is the only family he has ever known." As if reading the question in her mind, he continued on, his voice meditative. "Never knew my father. He left before I was born. My mother always said he wasn't a bad man, just wasn't ready for responsibility."

Denise felt the muscles in his arms tense. "When my mother was ill, I used to lie awake at night listenin' to her cough. We lived in a hovel that was really just a lean-to that had been built on to one of the tenements in the roughest part of Paris. There was one mattress, a dirt floor, and absolutely no way to stay warm in the winter. I used to stare at the canvas flap that covered the entrance, imaginin' that my father would come through it one night, just when we needed him most."

He stopped for an instant, steadying his voice. "I used to see the Musketeers on patrol when we crossed the Seine to go into the main part of the city. A lot of the other kids were afraid of them, but I was always just…in awe. They seemed so strong, and noble. I was sure my father was a musketeer, and thought that he would somehow sense how sick Mama was. After all, my mind reasoned, he'd probably realized he'd made a mistake in leavin', and had to have been searchin' for us for some time."

He leaned his cheek against hers, and was quiet for a moment. "Isn't it amazin' how much faith little kids have? I was certain my father was goin' to find us, and when he did, I knew he would move heaven and earth to make sure that my mother got the best care possible."

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, placing her palms on the top of his hands.

"Couldn't be helped," he answered, his voice matter-of-fact. "I had to grow up—fast. But it could have been much, much worse. I was lucky in that I was big for my age, and fast. When my stomach was rumbling with hunger on the third day after my mother had died, I stole a half-rotten apple from a fruit stand in the marketplace. I was starvin', and was way past being scared…all I could think about was food. But when the vendor started to chase me, I held on to that apple for dear life and darted through the square, weaving in between people, horses, and carts. As I flew past an alley, an arm shot out and pulled me into the shadows. That's how I met Charon."

"He was the King of the Court?"

Porthos chuckled. "Nah, he was just a kid like me…but he was streetwise, and the head of the king's junior group of pickpockets. Charon brought me back to the Court, and told the King he thought I had great potential…I was fast, clever, and athletic. That's how my life at the Court of Miracles began. Ironically, Charon did become the King years later."

"Does he still rule there?" Denise felt Porthos still for an instant, then he took a deep breath. "No, he was shot to death some months ago."

"I'm sorry. It seems he was good to you."

"He was," replied Porthos, his voice thoughtful. "But my life had taken me down a different path, and he found that hard to accept—felt I'd turned my back on the Court and its people. Although in the end, he was no different."

Denise instinctively felt there was more to the story, but did not press him. "Well, Porthos du Vallon, I quite like you just the way you are," she whispered, turning her head to give him a sweet smile.

"You **do** realize that when you look at me that way," he murmured, cupping her face tenderly in one of his big hands, "I have no choice but to kiss you?"

"Do what you must," she breathed. An instant later, his mouth had claimed hers, and Denise surrendered to the exquisite sensation of being cherished by a strong man with a heart of gold.

xxxxxxxxx

"You forget yourself, Milady," growled Rochefort, seizing her arm. "May I remind you, at this point in time your position at court is nothing more than that of a whore, albeit a well-dressed, important one…at least for the moment."

Milady's green eyes turned cold with anger, and in an instant, her grip on the dagger had tightened, and the blade flashed up to meet Rochefort's neck.

"Listen to me, Comte, and listen carefully," she hissed, giving him an icy stare. "You may think you are better than me, but you are **not**. You may have a title, and you may have land, but your thoughts and desires are as base as those of a thief living in the sewers of Paris. Sadly, you lack the skills and polish to achieve your ends without help. The sooner you realize that you need me—not the other way around—the sooner you will get what you want."

Rochefort's face was white with fury, but he controlled himself with difficulty, and gave a short, bitter laugh. "It seems as if we **are** cut from the same cloth after all, Milady. So let us cease sparring against each other, and turn our efforts against the real enemy. We may have been thwarted in this instance, but while we are within these walls, there is still a very real chance we can succeed in killing both Athos and the King."

Milady considered his words, then lowered the blade slowly, dragging the metal down the curve of Rochefort's neck. "A truce then. But **don't** make the mistake of treating me as anything other than an equal. I won't be so forgiving next time."

xxxxx

Athos had almost dozed off again when a soft knock came on the door. He sat up and scrubbed his face with his hands, then wearily got up and went to the door. Opening it, his face paled in shock as he saw the Queen, standing in the dark corridor and clearly unescorted.

"Your Majesty! What are you doing alone at this hour of night?" He bowed quickly, then took her hand and drew her into the room.

"Why does everyone seem to think I cannot navigate a hallway by myself?" she asked, a trifle cross.

Athos sighed, and took her by the hands. "Your Majesty, you must understand that there are many people who love you and fear for your safety...and," he dropped his voice, "not **all** of them are named Aramis."

She laughed softly, then her face turned serious as she squeezed his hands with her light fingers. "Point well taken, Athos. Your loyalty and discretion are beyond price. But I have come here to inquire after the health of your dear wife. How is she?" Her eyes swung to the bed, and she stifled a gasp as she saw how pale Charlotte looked. The woman shifted slightly in her sleep, and moaned in pain.

Athos was by her side in an instant. His gentle hand stroked her hair as he murmured a few words in her ear, then softly kissed her forehead. She quieted instantly at his touch. When he turned back to the Queen, he saw that her eyes were glistening with tears. "What an **incredible** thing to be able to be free. To be sure, I have led a privileged life, but I have never had the experience of being free to love, free to…" she choked up, and drew out an embroidered handkerchief from the folds of her cloak.

As Athos took a tentative step towards her, she composed herself with difficulty. "You must excuse me, Athos. It has been a long and tiring day. I came here to offer my prayers and best wishes for you and Charlotte, not to feel sorry for myself."

"I understand," he said simply, and she knew instinctively that he did.

"May I speak with her?" she asked, her blue eyes full of compassion.

"Of course."

The Queen moved over to the bed, and sat down in the chair next to the bed, taking one of Charlotte's hands carefully in her own. "Charlotte, it's Anne. I am glad to see you warm and well cared for…as I knew you would be by your darling husband and his friends. I know I don't have to tell you how precious it is to love—and be loved by someone-for all the right reasons. Some day, you and Athos will have a beautiful house with a lovely garden, with squealing, laughing children…and when the palace gets too much for me, I shall slip away to come visit and drink in the glow of your happiness. So take your time, rest, and recover. You have a wonderful life ahead of you with a good man…a brave, kind man who loves you with all his heart. Be well, Charlotte."

She reached out and gently smoothed back a stray lock of hair from the injured woman's face, then stood up and turned to see Athos, his face stricken. She went to him, and took his hands in her own. "She will heal. I am certain of it."

"You have no idea how grateful I am for your compassion," he replied, his voice husky with emotion. "But know that you have no more loyal subject in all of France."

* * *

**Next time...Treville does not have an easy night with d'Artagnan.**

**Apologies for the slow update...work has been hectic. I so appreciate all the support, whether in the form of a view, review, or favorite, for this story. I have found that writing gives me a lot of joy, so a big hug to all of you who are coming along for the ride!**


	37. Chapter 37

_"We go on and on about our differences. But, you know, our differences are less important than our similarities. People have a lot in common with one another, whether they see that or not."_

William Hall

* * *

**CHAPTER XXXVII**

Treville sat in a chair next to the bed where d'Artagnan lay, still unconscious. His gaze lingered on the young man, wondering what he had been drugged with. He knew that some hallucinogenic compounds caused lasting damage on the brains of those exposed to them.

_How will I explain this to Constance? She finally found the love of her life, only to have him turned into a crazed would-be killer, who is now possibly brain damaged_. Sighing, he scrubbed his face with his hands, then leaned back in his chair. Suddenly, he heard d'Artagnan moan, then begin to stir.

He watched as the musketeer's eyelids fluttered open, his eyes glassy and unfocused. His gaze turned to Treville, and his face darkened. "You're with him."

"With who?"

"The killer! The one who kills innocent men…fathers…poor men who just want a better life for their family. He lives to kill—Alexandre the rat told me! That rat understands me...just like my father did. Athos doesn't care. He's a comte. He uses people, then throws them away. Everything he ever told me was a lie."

"D'Artagnan, you know that's not true…"

"Don't tell me MORE LIES!" The musketeer strained against the ropes binding him to the bed. "You have **all** lied to me, ever since I came to Paris! And I bet Constance is in on it too….she's just another pawn of yours, isn't she?! You WILL ALL PAY!" His voice rose to a scream. "The apocalypse is coming, and the rats will show us the truth when it does! You will all burn!" He spit at Treville, who dodged, then walked to the window, trying to shut out the stream of curses that came from the bed. _It is worse than I thought_. Gradually, d'Artagnan quieted, slipping back back into unconsciousness.

A knock came on the door. "Enter!" called Treville softly, and the door swung open to admit a blond man in a heavy cloak.

"Captain Treville, I presume?"

"And who might you be?" asked the Captain, his eyes wary.

"You may be familiar with my family name—Rochefort. I believe we have an enemy in common."

"I am likely to have enemies in common with many people. You will have to be more specific, Monsieur."

"I am Gilles Rochefort. The man I speak of is my brother, the Comte de Rochefort. I believe you are acquainted?"

"I know him, yes."

"And if I am correct, the young musketeer there—" he nodded at d'Artagnan, "-has also made his acquaintance."

"You speak of serious matters, Monsieur," murmured Treville, regarding the nobleman with a speculative look.

"I am a serious person, Captain. I have information I think you would find most useful." He paused. "Of course, if we had a mutual understanding…." His voice trailed off, leaving Treville to read between the lines.

"I am not naive enough to think that you came out of the goodness of your heart," said the Captain dryly. "Why don't you just tell me what you want, and then I can tell you whether I have any interest in hearing what you have to say."

"What do I want?" Gilles ran his fingers over the family crest on the hilt of his sword. "What does every second son want? What the heir has, of course."

xxxxxxxx

Charlotte had fallen into a deep sleep. Athos, grateful that she was finally resting peacefully, stepped out into the hall for a moment. A shaft of moonlight filtered through a window farther down the hall, illuminating a small figure in a white nightdress.

_Catalina_. She was staring at the window, and appeared dazed.

Perhaps she was sleepwalking? He approached her, afraid of awakening her abruptly. "Catalina…" He called her name in a soft, soothing voice. She gave no sign of having seen him, but began to smack her lips repetitively. Her right hand picked at the sleeve of her nightdress. As he came closer, he saw that her eyes were wide open, but she appeared to be in an altered state of consciousness.

Suddenly, her entire body stiffened, and she cried out, then fell to the floor. Her arms flexed, then straightened, remaining rigid for several seconds. Athos rushed to her side. Her teeth were clenched, and her face pale. Her breathing became a series of irregular gasps, and he panicked as she began to turn blue. At that point, her arms and legs began a series of rapid, rhythmic jerks, and he realized she was having some kind of a fit. The little girl began to drool, and he turned her on her side, fearing that she would choke on her saliva. After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably less than a minute, the jerking slowed and stopped, her body relaxing.

Catalina was ashen, her face damp with sweat. Athos took her in his arms, tears coming to his eyes. "Catalina, wake up!" he pleaded, stroking her cheek gently. "Let me see those pretty blue eyes."

"Papa?" she mumbled. "You found me."

"So I did," he whispered, feeling as if his heart was breaking.

"I want your arm to get better. I love you…" she said, tears running down her cheeks as her eyes remained tightly closed.

"I love you too, darling," he replied, his voice barely audible. Cradling her against his chest, he stood up with care, and made his way down the hallway to the suite of rooms where Annette and Andrés were staying. The door was ajar, and he backed into it, entering the sitting room just in time to see Annette rush out of the bedroom.

"Catalina! What happened? I woke up and she was gone! Where did you find her?!"

"She was standing in the corridor," Athos said quietly. "She was in some sort of a daze. Then she fell down, and had some sort of a fit. Her arms and legs were jerking, and she turned blue for a moment."

Annette's face crumpled. "I had so hoped it was over…"

Athos lowered Catalina to the couch, covered her with a warm blanket, then knelt next to her, holding her small hand in his. He turned to Annette.

"This has happened before?"

She nodded, and knelt next to him, tears running down her face as she stroked her daughter's hair. "Many times. Oh Athos, I can't stand it!"

He drew her against his chest, and she spoke again, her voice trembling. "You know what was like for me to be different, but **this** is-so much worse. Her—condition-is the reason we have had to move so many times. The last attack she had happened when we were living in Spain. Unfortunately, it occurred in public, at a church festival. Minutes later, a child was found drowned in a nearby pond. An old woman pointed a finger at Catalina, accusing her of being an instrument of the devil, and in an instant, the whole village turned on us. We barely made it out of there alive, Athos!" She began to sob in earnest, reliving the terror all over again.

Athos brushed the tears from her cheek with his thumb, his heart breaking as he thought of his innocent, happy child being attacked by a mob. "Is there no cure?"

Annette shook her head. "At least, none have been suggested that I would even think of considering. I have been advised to have her undergo exorcism more times than I can count, and the thought of that makes me physically ill. To have someone imply that a demon has taken up residence in my daughter…"

"Annette?" Andrés stood leaning against the door to the bedroom, Milady's words flashing through his head when he saw his wife in Athos' arms.

"Andrés…" She wiped her eyes and looked up at her husband, suddenly self-conscious. "Catalina had another episode. Thank God Athos happened to come upon her...she had walked out into the hall. What if she had been standing by the staircase?"

"Please...I don't even want to think about it." He rubbed his eyes wearily, then extended a hand to Athos. "Thank you, my friend."

"It was nothing," replied the musketeer. He rose to his feet, shook the Spaniard's hand, then helped Annette up. "I should get back to Charlotte. " His gaze drifted back to the little girl on the couch. "If you need anything…."

"Of course. But we have detained you long enough from your warm bed and your lovely wife. Our thanks once again." The falconer drew his wife to him, and kissed the top of her head.

As Athos closed the door behind him, he leaned against it for a moment. _My first love-my wife-my daughter..._w_hy is it that they all must suffer? _

xxxxxxxx

Porthos and Denise were curled up in front of the fire, nested in a pile of pillows and blankets. Denise lay on her side, snug against Porthos' broad chest. "It seems as if I am living a different life here," she murmured, lacing her small fingers into his.

"How so?"

"At home, it is just me, Madeleine, my mother—and my work. I do enjoy what I do. Some of it may seem mundane—mending torn shirts, for instance—but the satisfaction I get from making something usable again makes it worth it. And when I get to create a special garment, like a christening gown—or Charlotte's wedding dress—that is what I really love. If only I could do it all the time, and never have to worry about milking cows, or doing laundry, or dealing with my mother's idiosyncrasies."

Porthos chuckled. "Madame Etiennette sounds like quite a character."

"That's one way to describe her," replied Denise with a wry smile. "She loves to manage everyone and everything…and she really has no filter when It comes to her comments."

"What do you think she'd say about me?"

"Honestly? I don't think she'd like the fact that you are—different."

He was silent for a moment. "Did she like Alain?"

She laughed outright. "Umm…no."

"Why not? I assume **he** was white. Madeleine is quite fair."

"Yes, but he was from outside Paris…a country bumpkin. Remember, I grew up in the city, not far from Charlotte." She glanced up at him. "Just think…I might have been at the market as a little girl at the same time you were there with your mother."

"Or I might have been runnin' past you with the contents of a picked pocket," replied Porthos with a grin. "Your mother would definitely have not approved of that."

"You never know…she might have thought it enterprising," she said teasingly.

He rolled his eyes. "Or she might have hailed the nearest musketeer to arrest me."

He was silent for a moment. "Good job I ended up as one of the good guys. Maybe that will count for somethin'."

She looked up at him, tracing the curve of his jaw with her fingers. "It means a great deal to **me.** And what we think of each other—not what my mother thinks—is what's important."

"You are a wise woman," he murmured, kissing her neck and settling her against him again. A few minutes later, they were both asleep.

* * *

**A bit of a twist...is Gilles to be trusted?**

**It is a sad fact that there has been discrimination against people with seizure disorders throughout history. The _Malleus Maleficarum_. a treatise on the prosecution of witches that I referred to in_ Silent Night,_ declared the presence of seizures to be a characteristic of witches. Countless people-men, women, and children-died as a result.**


	38. Chapter 38

_"Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love."_

William Shakespeare

* * *

**CHAPTER XXXVIII**

Gilles' voice was cold. "I want his title."

Treville leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but my musketeers are not assassins for hire."

"Please, Captain! I have something much more elegant in mind. Drawing and quartering, perhaps? It **is** the punishment for treason, after all."

_Treason_. Treville kept his face carefully neutral. "I will need details."

"And I will need your promise that the position of the Captain of the Red Guards will be mine."

"That is the King's decision, and his alone."

Gilles slowly pulled off his gloves, and placed them in his belt. "Captain Treville. We both know how affairs at court—especially in matter of positions of importance—work. Caught in the right mood, His Majesty can be—highly suggestible, shall we say? And having an ally—or two—who are close to him can make all the difference."

"I suppose I am meant to be one of the allies. Who is the other?"

"The King's mistress of the moment. Milady de Winter."

xxxxxx

As Athos neared the door to his chamber, he heard Charlotte calling out for him, her voice full of pain. Rushing into the room, he found her curled up on her side, clutching her abdomen. Her nightdress was stained with blood.

"I'm bleeding! Where **were** you?" she sobbed. "You **promised** you wouldn't leave me!"

"I'm sorry, my love! I just went-"

"Athos! Just get Aramis….please!"

Running down the hall, he reached Aramis' room in less than a minute, and pounded on the door. "Aramis! Charlotte's bleeding again!"

Seconds later, Aramis was with him, medical kit in hand. "Where is she bleeding from?" he asked in a low voice.

Athos stared at him. "Why, her wound, of course. Where else would she be bleeding from?"

"With a stab wound, sometimes injuries that are not obvious initially become apparent hours later," responded Aramis smoothly. He was at Charlotte's side as soon as they entered the chamber. Her eyes were full of fear, and he took her hand immediately, pressing it to his lips.

"Charlotte, were you so desperate for my company that you decided to that dramatic measure were needed?" he inquired, giving her his most charming smile. "If you keep this up, Athos will be on to us."

She gave him a wan smile, then glanced at Athos. "My husband well knows that he is my one and only weakness," she murmured, and reached for him. Athos bent down and kissed her, then softly spoke to her as Aramis began his examination.

The medic sliced her nightdress with his dagger, and stifled a curse when he saw that blood was indeed trickling from the wound once again.

"How did this happen?" he asked, exasperated that his careful work had been undone. "Did it just start bleeding, or could you possibly have done something to provoke it?"

"I…I was so thirsty, and Athos was gone," Charlotte whispered. "I thought I would be able to walk just a few steps to the water jug, but I was so weak, I nearly fell. That was when it started. I'm sorry, Aramis..."

"You have no reason to apologize," responded Aramis gently, simultaneously glaring at Athos. _You insisted I leave, then you let **this** happen._

Athos' voice was steady, but heavy with regret. "Charlotte, I am so sorry…I should never have left!. But I went out into the hall just for a moment, and Catalina was standing there, alone, and in her nightclothes. She seemed to be unaware of where she was. Then she began to have some sort of a fit, and became completely unresponsive. I had to bring her to her back to Andres and Annette."

"Of course you had to…" Charlotte said, her voice trembling. "And I don't mean to be selfish, but Athos…." She stopped, choking with emotion. "I am **so** tired of having to share you with other people." Sobs wracked her body, and Aramis shot a warning look at Athos. _Tell her you love her_, he mouthed, as he reached for a bottle of brandy.

The medic picked up a glass. "My lovely little apothecary, I require you to drink some medicinal brandy. Doctor's orders." He poured a healthy measure of the liquid, then helped her lean forward.

"I don't want it! Please, don't make me drink it!"

Aramis looked at Athos, who nodded and slid his arm under her back, drawing her against his chest. The medic retreated to the hearth, steeling himself to heat the cautery iron once again.

"You have suffered much because of me," Athos whispered, gently stroking her hair. "If you had never met me, this would have never happened to you. You could have met a nice, hard-working man—someone who didn't have an out-of-wedlock child, or an assassin for an ex-wife. You would be happily living in a pretty little house—"

"I want **you**, Athos! Not some nice, hard-working man!"

He laughed in spite of himself. "Does that mean I am a lazy good for nothing?"

She clung to him tighter. "Swear you love me...I need to hear it, Athos."

He gazed down at her, and tilted her face so his eyes could meet hers. "Charlotte Gaillard, I swear on my life that I love you with all my heart. When you are well, and this is all over, I am taking you on a belated honeymoon to my family's hunting lodge. We will take long walks through the forest, and sleep under the stars." He lowered his voice to a whisper, his breath warm on her ear. "And I will make passionate love to you so often that you will beg me to allow you one night of restorative sleep."

"I doubt it would come to that," she said softly. "Athos, I know you have probably thought those things, but I so badly need you to say them….especially now."

"Well, if you are a good girl and drink your brandy," he dropped his voice, his eyes darkening,"I can go into a bit more detail about what methods I would use."

"Pass the glass. Now."

Aramis, listening to their conversation with his back to the couple, smirked. _Athos, please, if you have any imagination at all, use it now…give her something to fight for. _

"You get nothing from me until half the glass is gone."

Looking at him, she tossed the glass back and drained it in one go. "Start talking. And be specific, please."

His eyes widened, and Aramis' quiet laughter drifted across the room to him. Athos turned, and glared at the medic. "Do **not** tell me you have been listening to a private conversation between a husband and wife!"

Aramis held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "My friend, I have the Hippocratic Oath branded on my brain. Here, let me prove it. 'Whatever, in the course of my practice, I may see or hear (even when not invited), whatever I may happen to obtain knowledge of, if it be not proper to repeat it, I will keep sacred and secret within my own breast.'" He held his hand to his heart, and bowed his head. "If need be, I will withdraw to the window for a moment. But Athos, I suggest you stick to a 30 second teaser, because I have work to do."

The Spaniard moved across the room, and slowly counted to thirty, listening to Athos murmur to his wife. His words were followed by a gasp, then a sigh of delight from Charlotte. "My virgin ears are blushing," Aramis called. "Do I have the all clear?"

"I think the answer is yes," replied Athos. His friend turned to see the newlyweds holding hands, Charlotte giving Athos a dreamy, seductive smile.

"I see the brandy has done its job."

"Well, she has barely had anything to eat today," commented Athos. "I'm not surprised she is already rather….taken with my proposal."

"What do you mean by taken?" Charlotte giggled, her words slurring slightly. "Athos, you **do** promise you will do that thing where you-"

"Darling, we can negotiate the details later," responded her husband hastily. "Now is not the time."

She closed her eyes, a blissful expression on her face, and began to breathe evenly.

Aramis went to work quickly, touching the cautery iron to the wound. Athos' face turned pale in response, and the medic began to talk, trying to keep the mood light. "So, it appears you have captivated your wife with your bedroom voice and…skills, shall we say?"

"We are **not** having this conversation," muttered Athos, averting his gaze.

xxxxxx

Catalina was asleep, tucked into bed with her favorite doll under her arm. As usual, she had remembered nothing about what had happened.

Annette lay in bed with her husband, her head on Andrés' shoulder as he held her close.

"You must have been terrified," he murmured. "Why didn't you just wake me up when you noticed she was gone?"

"You have gone through so much, and your body is still healing. I didn't want to disturb you unnecessarily."

"Luckily Athos found her and brought her to you." His voice changed subtly, and Annette sensed that the tone of the conversation had changed.

"It was lucky he happened upon her," she agreed, her voice neutral.

"When I was convalescing in the library…" He stopped, then began again, his voice sounding more uncertain than she had ever heard him. "Milady de Winter came to me, and insinuated that you and Athos had been lovers…that Catalina was his daughter."

Annette fought the panic that flooded her body. "What did you say to that?"

"I let her know that I resented her implication."

She relaxed slightly. "I am glad you put her in her place. I have never been unfaithful to you, Andrés, and I never will be."

He was silent for a moment, then spoke, his voice a bit unsteady, but resolute. "I believe you when you say you have never been unfaithful. But what we are discussing is not what occurred **after** our marriage, but before it. So I must ask you directly. **Were** you and Athos lovers? Is there **any** chance that Catalina is not my flesh and blood?"

* * *

**If you are Annette, what do you do now?! I personally vote for passing Andrés some of Aramis' medicinal brandy. ;)**

**I hope you are all enjoying the last lovely days of summer-sad to see it end, but that means we are closer to season 3!**

**Thank you again for all your comments!**


	39. Chapter 39

_"Forgiveness is the final form of love."_

Reinhold Neibuhr

* * *

**CHAPTER XXXVIII**

There was a long pause, then Annette said quietly, "Do you doubt that I love you?"

"No. But I speak not of the present, but the past…when we first met. Our marriage was hastily arranged, and at the beginning, we were strangers. We hardly knew each other. But I respected your father, and knew your mother's family well. I did not doubt that you would prove to be a good and faithful wife." He reached for her hand. "Tell me about the months before we met."

"Once I begin the story," she said, her voice trembling, "you must allow me to finish…it is very important you understand everything."

"I promise."

She took in a deep breath, then turned on her back, staring at the canopy of the bed. She drew his hand over her heart, and placed hers on top. "When I came to la Fère, I was used to being alone-except for my parents, of course. My eyes had been a curse since the day I was born. My mother told me once that the first priest they asked to baptize me refused, saying that a child with such eyes could only be a demon. Whenever we moved to a new town, I had to prepare myself to either be ostracized, teased, or ignored. I preferred the last option."

A tear rolled down her cheek as she continued. "Each time we moved, my parents would hope that things would be different for me. They would be so optimistic….and sometimes I would make a friend, for a short time." She laughed bitterly. "There was a little blind girl in our village in the Netherlands whom I bonded with. We were both outsiders because of our differences. Unfortunately, her mother was very superstitious. When my friend fell and broke her arm while we were playing one day, her mother was convinced I was ill luck, and told me to stay away from her daughter."

"Each time I was rejected, it would crush my mother and father. I became more and more withdrawn, and immersed myself in the one thing I was good at—drawing. I began to think that I would never have a normal life. I would probably live with my parents until they died, and then…." Her voice trailed off as she swallowed.

"When we came to la Fère, the moment I met Thomas, I saw the revulsion in his eyes. I was becoming a young woman, and to see a good-looking young man find me so obviously repulsive….it was devastating. I made up my mind then and there that I would stay away from the Comte's sons as much as possible. But Athos…Athos was **so** different. I had **never** met anyone like him, Andres." Her tone became softer. "He truly didn't care about my looks. Many people had said that before, but he was the only one who I knew really meant it. He was so different from Thomas. We would walk along the river, and talk of all sorts of things. He made me laugh, and I found that I enjoyed making him laugh. He brought me all manner of books from the library in the chateau, and whenever we had time, we would read together. It opened my mind to a whole new world."

"As the months went by, I realized that I had fallen in love with him. I knew it was foolish, and that the son of a Comte would never be allowed to marry the daughter of a falconer, especially one thought…defective. I dared not hope he would ever return my feelings. One night, however, I went with Athos to the stables to check on his horse, who had come up lame. I slipped and nearly fell. He caught me in his arms, and I laughed, making a comment about how clumsy I was.

"Athos looked at me, and said something to me that I have never forgotten…._you must learn to see yourself through the eyes of those who care for you_."

"_I know my parents love me_," I replied, feeling self-conscious.

"_I am not speaking of your parents,_" he murmured...and then, he kissed me. I thought my heart would burst with joy. The idea that someone outside my family cared for me...that someone thought that the world was a better place for me having been born—I cannot tell you how much it meant to me. A week later, our parents were away from the chateau, and Athos took me to the fair in Orleans. We went early in the day, when the crowds were sparse. The weather was so beautiful…blue skies, just a light breeze. The entertainment was amazing….there were jugglers, an acting troupe, and musicians. I had never seen anything like it." She smiled at the memory, then a shadow passed over her face.

"We decided to watch the final match of the wrestling, then head back to the chateau. Athos left me for a moment to retrieve his horse. In that span of time, the local man, who was heavily favored to win, had his neck broken by the challenger, and died on the spot. Many people lost money on bets they had placed, and a riot nearly started. The challenger, looking to divert the attention of the hostile crowd, caught sight of me. "_That girl there with the two different color eyes! I saw her lips moving before we started_!" he cried out. "_She cursed him! Look at her! She's an abomination! She's an instrument of the devil!"_

"The crowd turned on me in an instant, and I was thrown to the ground, kicked and beaten by an angry mob. I remember thinking I was going to die there." She stopped, her voice nearly breaking. "Then I heard a shot, and Athos rode straight into the melee. He told me later that he killed two of the men beating me. As the crowd scattered, he was able to get me onto his horse and out of the city."

"On the way home, it began to rain. I was bleeding from a large cut on my face, and my arm had been badly sprained. We took shelter in a woodsman's hut on the edge of the estate. Both of us we here badly shaken, and Athos' hands trembled as he tended to my wounds. When he had seen me under attack, he had feared I had been killed. Emotion overtook us, and we ended up making love. He told me that he loved me, and that he would find a way to marry me. And I believe he would have, if not for what happened next."

"A little over two weeks later, I knew I was pregnant. When I told Athos, he was so overjoyed. He went straight to his father, and the Comte promised Athos we would marry. In retrospect, it bought him enough time to hastily arrange my marriage to you. Andres, he told me he would kill my father if I did not go along with his plan. And I have no doubt he would have."

She shook her head, tears freely spilling down her cheeks. "I makes me absolutely sick to think of how I have deceived you, Andrés. You have been nothing but honest and faithful during our years together, and now you know I am anything but." Her voice choked with emotion. "**Please** forgive mend know that I love you. Catalina may have been conceived out of an act of love between Athos and myself, but you have been her father, and you will remain so."

Annette began to sob in earnest, and buried her face in Andrés' shoulder. "Please, say **something**!" she begged.

"Annette...I... I just wish I had known from the beginning."

xxxxxx

An hour later, Porthos was awake again. He propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at Denise. Her dark hair was spread across her cheek, and he gently brushed it off her face. As if by magic, she opened her eyes, and gazed up at him. "Is everything alright?"

"Everythin's fine. I didn't mean to wake you," he murmured. His warm, brown eyes gazed down at her as a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I was thinkin', and couldn't sleep."

"About what?" she asked, now fully awake.

"You."

"What about me?"

"About how I have only known you for less than two months, and I already can't imagine livin' without you."

She picked up one of the strings on his shirt, and began sliding it back and forth between her thumb and index finger. "Me neither. You have been very good to me…and to Madeleine."

"So, what will you do when this is all over?"

"I suppose I will go back to Moret-sur-Loing….but what do I **wish** I could do? Live in Paris."

"Well then," he murmured. "Perhaps you should do that."

"It's a nice dream, but I don't think Captain Treville intended for me to become a permanent fixture at the garrison."

"I doubt he did…but what if **I** asked you to become a permanent fixture in my life? As my wife?"

"Hmm…I don't know. Perhaps you should ask me properly and see."

He grinned. "Cheeky little thing you are, for such a pretty scrap of a woman. But if you insist, we will do this properly." Standing, he took her by the hands, and pulled her to her feet. When he knelt on one knee in front of her, Denise felt her heart begin to pound, and tears sprang to her eyes.

"Denise, I know what it like to have felt love, and then to have had it ripped away. The ache of loss dulls with time, but is never completely erased. I thought I had healed through the brotherhood I found in the regiment, and in a way I have-but you have made me realize I want-and need-so much more. I want you by my side, for the rest of my life, through good times and bad. Marryin' me will expose you to the ugly side of what I have to deal with at times. But if you are willin' to face the dragons with me, I promise to do my best to make you—and Madeleine—happy. So, what I'm sayin' is…will you marry me?"

* * *

**This chapter is for my sweet friend 302pilot, who is a fan of Porthos &amp; Denise...I hope you enjoyed it!**

**A bit of a cliffhanger as regards the relationships...answers next time!**


	40. Chapter 40

_"Anger, if not restrained, is frequently more hurtful to us than the injury that provokes it."_

_Lucius Annaeus Seneca_

* * *

**CHAPTER XL**

"Do you even need to ask?" Denise's voice trembled with emotion. "Porthos du Vallon, I will gladly marry you!" She threw her arms around his neck, and he sank to the ground, pulling her into his lap. As she laid her head against his chest, he grinned.

"Good, because I didn't have a speech planned for a refusal."

"**Someone** was feeling confident." She drew back, smiling at him. But I believe a proper kiss is required to** really** make this official," she said, tracing a finger across his lips.

"Is that so? Well, then I believe we'd best get comfortable." He laid her down on the blankets in front of the fire, whisking a large pillow behind her head. "And I give you fair warnin', Madame Montville. It make take me some time to get a proper kiss accomplished, because right now, I want nothin' more than to kiss you in a way that is far from proper."

"If you must," she said, her hands sliding under his untucked shirt.

"I'm afraid so," he murmured, giving her a slow, burning kiss that quickly turned into something much more sensual. Denise was not an inexperienced maiden, and she responded to Porthos with an intensity that caused him to nearly lose control. His lips explored the graceful curve of her neck, then moved on to the smooth skin below her collarbone. She arched her back in response, causing a tempting bit of cleavage to stray above the neckline of her dress.

"You have no idea how beautiful you are," he muttered, his breath warm on her breasts. "Not just your body-which is very fine, by the way- but your laugh, your voice, your spirit—I have never met anyone like you, Denise. We are gonna have some very handsome children, no doubt about it."

"Ah, so you are already planning on getting me with child?" she asked teasingly

"Not right away," he said, a gleam in his eye. "I want you all to myself for at least—oh, six months or so. Then we can start thinkin' about babies."

"You **do** know how they are made, don't you? Or do you plan to live in chastity for much of that time?"

"Chastity," he said hoarsely, rolling her on top of him, "will be the last thing on my mind."

xxxxx

By the time Aramis had finished cauterizing Charlotte's wound for the second time, Athos felt the wave of nausea finally pass. He leaned over and kissed his wife's forehead, relieved to see that she was still under the influence of the brandy.

"She can't afford to go through this again," he said, staring at the fire. "Do you think it will hold this time?"

"I don't know," replied Aramis testily as he dried his hands. "Do you plan on abandoning your wife again and leaving her to fend for herself?"

Athos sprang up. "That is not what happened, Aramis, and you damn well know it!"

"Then why are you so angry? Hmm?" The medic's dark eyes sparked with anger.

"Because you insist on calling me to task every time I am less than the perfect husband!"

"For God's sake, Athos!" Aramis grasped him by his doublet and slammed him against the wall. "This is your** wife** we're talking about! Don't you care about Charlotte?"

"Listen to me, Aramis…"

"No,** you** listen to **me**! Your wife just laid out her heart to you! She is sick of having to share you with the ghosts of your past…several of which are currently alive and resident here in this chateau. She begged you to tell her you love her, Athos! Do you even realize how sad that is? Any normal man would have said it without prompting. But you are a damaged shell of a man who seems to have no inclination to make even a half-hearted effort towards making your wife feel cherished. If you are not careful, you will break Charlotte's heart! And then she will be left with an infant, instead of infantile adult, on her hands!"

Athos stared at him in shock. "What did you say?"

_I am such an idiot_. "I said, if you break her heart in the future and leave her with children to raise on her own, I will kill you myself."

"That is **not** what you said." Athos' voice was slow and deliberate. "You said she will be left with an infant."

"And you are reading things into my words!" Aramis snapped.

The man in front of him suddenly transformed into the Comte de la Fère. Eyes wide with fury, he shouted, "Is my wife with child, or is she not?"

"She is," came a weak voice from behind them.

Athos swung around and saw his wife, her face etched with pain, turn her eyes to him. "And I am so afraid, Athos. I don't want to lose this baby."

As if in a dream, he went to her and knelt at the side of the table, taking her hand in his. "I will not let that happen," he said hoarsely. "We are going to have a child. A daughter or son who will hopefully have none of my faults and all of your strengths. And we are going to raise that child—together."

xxxxx

Treville kept watch by d'Artagnan's bed, mulling over the story he had been told by Gilles Rochefort, and trying to decide if any part of it was likely to be true. The younger man had been restless in his sleep, calling out for Athos at one point, then for Constance. The Captain took it as a good sign that familiar names were being mentioned by his charge.

A little past midnight, d'Artagnan's eyes opened, and he glanced around the room in confusion.

"What am I doing here? Captain, what's happened? Why am I tied up?!" His voice rose in panic.

Treville hesitated for a moment, then asked, "What is the last thing you remember, d'Artagnan?"

The musketeer thought for a moment, then said, "I remember going out to the maze with Aramis…then it's all a blur." He furrowed his brow, willing himself to recall what had happened to him, then shook his head in despair. "Was I gone for a long time?"

"Long enough. Why don't you get some rest, and we will talk in the morning?"

"I'm not tired! In fact, I think I have slept too long. I have a terrible headache…and you haven't told me why I am tied up." His dark eyes focused on Treville. "Tell me the truth, Captain. Did I…did I hurt someone? Maybe one of the falconers?"

The musketeer commander looked towards the window, where the moon had just passed behind a large, dark cloud, and debated whether to tell the young man the truth.

"Captain! For God's sake, tell me!"

"You tried to kill Charlotte."

"What?!"

"D'Artagnan, someone kidnapped you and drugged you, then sent you off presumably to kill Athos. Charlotte happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Did I shoot her? Stab her? Is she badly wounded?!"

"She was stabbed, and bled quite a bit, but Aramis managed to patch her up. God willing, she will be fine."

The younger man closed his eyes. "How do I ever face her again? How will Athos be able to even stand the sight of me?"

xxxxx

"I wish I had known from the beginning." The pain in Andres' voice broke Annette's heart.

"Andres, please try to understand! What was I to do? I was in an impossible situation! Athos' father threatened to kill my own father if I did not go through with my marriage to you. And I had my mother to think about—I could not be the cause of her becoming a widow, then being saddled with a freak of a daughter with an illegitimate child!"

"So I was the solution to all your problems," he said slowly.

"In a way, yes. But on our wedding night, I made a vow to God that if He kept my family safe, I would do everything I could to make you happy—to be the wife that you deserved! And you were so kind and thoughtful—you made it easy to fall in love with you."

"It was easy, was it? Even as you were carrying another man's child?" He stared at the ceiling, his voice becoming cold when he next spoke. "A child I have thought was my flesh and blood…and now I find out she is the product of your lust-fueled coupling with a comte's son in a woodsman's hut, of all places!"

"Andres, how can you say something so cruel? I just explained to you that we were in love!"

"Yes, so much so that when I bedded you days later, you actually made me believe that I had pleased you!"

"But you did! You were so tender, and so gentle."

"You cannot have it both ways, Annette!" He threw back the covers, and got out of bed, pulling on his boots. "You cannot make love to one man while carrying another's child, then carry on as if…as if that is perfectly normal! Not unless you are a prostitute, that is."

She stood up and slapped him full in the face. "You dare to call me a prostitute! Me, the woman who is carrying your child even now! Who has done nothing but live for you since the day we were married!"

"How do I even know this child is mine?" he shouted, completely losing control. "For all I know, your affair with Athos never ended!"

"Papa? Mama? Why are you screaming at each other? You're scaring me!" Catalina, her doll held tightly against her chest, stood in the doorway to the bedroom, her little face white with fear.

* * *

**There are a lot of moving plotlines going on here! Andres' confrontation with Annette took a different direction than I had anticipated...I really feel for poor Catalina. D'Artagnan is not exactly having an easy time either. At least Porthos and Denise had a moment of happiness! More soon... thank you to all the readers faithfully following along!**


	41. Chapter 41

_"Human behavior flows from three main sources: desire, emotion, and knowledge."_

Plato

* * *

**CHAPTER XLI**

"I'm sorry, darling!" Annette went to her daughter immediately, and knelt in front of her, taking Catalina into her arms. "We're both tired and cross tonight, and are behaving like naughty children. But more importantly, how do you feel? You had a fit earlier. Do you remember?"

The little girl shook her head, sniffling as she wrapped her arms around mother's neck. "Why don't they ever stop? I've prayed to God ever so many times asking Him to take them away! I just want to be normal like everyone else!"

"I know, sweetheart, I know…let me take you back to bed."

She stood up, Catalina's legs wrapping around her waist, and walked out of the room, averting her eyes from her husband..

"Good night, Papa." The little girl flapped her doll at Andrés, and he gave her a distracted smile. "Good night, Princess." A minute later, he was dressed and headed down the corridor, his mind in turmoil. Remembering the cache of strong drink in the library, he entered the room and poured himself a large tumbler of whisky, tossing it back in one swallow. Picking up the decanter, he refilled it and drained it once more. He wandered around the room for several minutes, then stood at one of the floor to ceiling windows, gazing out at the winter night.

"Can't sleep?" Milady de Winter's silky voice floated across the room to him.

He turned and gave her a wary look. "Perhaps."

Silk skirts rustling, she advanced to the table where the decanter stood, and arched a delicate eyebrow towards the couch in front of the now-languishing fire. "Why don't you make yourself comfortable? I'll get us both a fresh drink. We seem to be in the same predicament."

He gave a harsh laugh. "I highly doubt that."

She cast a glance at him as he stood in front of the hearth, leaning against the mantelpiece. "I am all too familiar with the look on your face."

Andrés regarded her for a moment, then walked over to the couch and sat down. "Really? Then tell me what you see."

Milady glided over to him, the fine material of her dress whispering in her wake. Handing him the glass, she gazed at him with her luminous green eyes. "I see a man who has felt the sting of betrayal."

Sitting down beside him, she watched as he drained the second glass, his eyes glittering in the firelight. "And I see a woman who has her own agenda."

"Perhaps our agendas share some elements in common." She took a delicate sip from her own glass, licking a stray drop of the amber liquid from the rim. Placing it on the table in front of her, she murmured, "Why don't you tell me what's on your mind?"

He suddenly seized her wrist. "I don't know what game you're playing, but I am not as stupid as you think I am."

"You found out the truth about your wife and Athos, didn't you?" Her pupils dilated slightly in interest. "Let me tell you, Andrés, Athos hurt me once the way Annette has hurt you. I have no reason to lie to you, because the past speaks for itself. I rather doubt she told you the whole story. Did she mention the part where I found her and Athos in bed together one evening, several months after her marriage? She had come to help her parents move from the estate after her father resigned as falconer.. I suppose you were home minding the baby. Athos claimed nothing had happened...that they were just talking." She stared at him. "Apparently he thought I was stupid."

Andrés sensed that the pain and anger in her voice were real. "That salacious bit was omitted from her tale." He averted his eyes. "So, even if she did not actually commit the act of fornication, her heart still belongs to him to some degree. And perhaps if you hadn't walked in….. God, I have been **such** a fool."

"There is no worse feeling in the world."

The falconer looked back up at her, his eyes lingering on her breasts as the alcohol soared through his veins. "I have had no woman but Annette in these past seven years. Perhaps you can show me what I have been missing."

n that instant, his mouth crashed against hers, and the fury he felt was sublimated into a burning lust. Milady was gifted in sensing exactly how to pleasure a man, and within minutes, he was almost frantic with desire.

As she knelt in front of the fire, clad only in her filmy chemise, her eyes slanted up at him. "Do I please you so far? I am guessing this is a far cry from the usual routine in your bedroom."

He stared at her for a moment, then spoke, his voice thick with drink. "You are gorgeous, Milady de Winter. And I desire anything but the usual tonight."

xxxxxxxx

"Athos, please don't blame Aramis!" Charlotte's eyes were imploring as she looked up at her husband. "I begged him not to say anything to you about the baby until we were out of danger. I had been trying to think of a clever way to tell you."

"I'm sorry, Charlotte!" Aramis was filled with remorse. "My emotions just got the better of me, and before I knew it..."

"You have nothing to apologize for, Aramis!" She reached out her hand to him. "You have been the best friend Athos and I could ever ask for."

"Does this mean I will be holding a little René-Renée-in eight months?" he teased.

Athos rolled his eyes. "I advise you not to get your hopes up on that score. Now, if you will give me instructions on how to administer the pain medication, I will be happy to release you from your duty. And this time," he glanced down at Charlotte, giving her the lazy half-smile that had first won her heart, "I will not be budging from your side. So prepare to become sick of my presence."

"I welcome the chance," she whispered, then closed her eyes, fatigued by the energy of talking.

"Aramis, can't we get her more comfortable?" Athos' hand strayed to his scarf, loosening it around his neck as he paced the length of the table. "I hate for her to remain lying on a hard table."

"Until we are completely sure the bleeding has stopped, it is best not to move her, my friend."

"Of course." Athos' eyes met those of his comrade, and he placed a hand on Aramis' shoulder. "Thank you. Once again, you have saved me from myself."

The medic wrapped his arms around his friend, and murmured, "I owe you as well. You have held my life—and the lives of those I love—in your hands more than once."

When they finally separated, Aramis bid him good night, then paused and said with a grin, "Don't let Porthos know I was hugging you. You know how jealous he gets."

xxxxxxxx

"Let's go tell everyone!" Denise jumped up, pulling Porthos to his feet. "Come on! I don't want to wait until morning!"

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" he replied, chuckling at her eagerness. "Everyone is probably already asleep."

"During an impromptu house party? I doubt it.'

"Well, if they are awake, perhaps they don't want to be disturbed," he said with a cheeky smile, coaxing her back into his arms.

"Not everyone may have such a one-track mind, sweetheart. But as I recall, there is no ring on my finger as of yet."

"Easily solved, once we return to Paris." He nestled his face into the curtain of her dark hair, inhaling the faint scent of the rosewater that she favored. "I intend for us to marry as soon as possible."

"I have just the place in mind…it's a small chapel in the woods not far from Moret-sur-Loing."

"Sounds romantic," murmured Porthos, nuzzling her neck for a moment more before drawing away reluctantly. "But—I suppose it shall have to wait for now. We should go check on Charlotte and Athos. Aramis must be done by now."

xxxxxx

Athos sat next to Charlotte, her hand in his. She was drowsy, but he sensed that her discomfort was making sleep elusive.

"My love, let me give you some of the pain medication that Aramis left."

"I'm fine," she responded dully.

"I can tell you are anything but fine," he murmured, kissing her forehead lightly. "I can read your face like a book."

She opened one eye and squinted up at him. "Athos, please!"

"You don't think so?"

"Darling, you may be able to anticipate the next move of the most talented swordsmen, but your emotional intelligence is often—lacking, shall we say?"

"Are you serious?" He looked at her, his face incredulous. "I think I have made great strides in the time we have been together."

"So you find it easy to perceive your own emotions, and to understand them?"

"Well—"

"If you tell me yes, I swear I will slap you."

His face softened. "Perhaps there are some things I still need to learn."

"Good boy." She gave his hand a weak squeeze. "But you have come a long way from the guarded, moody man I first met. You only display that behavior-oh, two thirds of the time now."

He cast a reproachful look at her, and she laughed, then winced in pain.

"See, you are in pain! Don't try to deny it."

"I don't want to hurt the baby," Charlotte whispered. "Athos, when I was first stabbed, I had these awful cramps low in my belly….I was so afraid I was about to miscarry. I won't put our child at risk."

"I doubt Aramis would have prescribed this for you if he thought it would hurt the baby. He does know you are pregnant…and he is nothing if not meticulous in his medical care...sometimes to a degree that is annoying. Believe me, I know from experience."

"Well, thank God for Aramis. If not, you might have been dead several times over."

"You are probably right," he murmured, shifting his voice into the lower, more intimate register as he gave her a smoldering look. "So, what can I do to coax you to take the medication?"

"Keep using that voice...and those eyes. They can be very persuasive..,I know from experience."

xxxxx

"Captain, I need to go and see Athos and Charlotte!" D'Artagnan pleaded, his voice rising in agitation. "I need to try to explain!"

"D'Artagnan, how can you explain what you don't remember?"

"Then I need to apologize! Beg forgiveness! **Something**! I can't lie here and allow guilt to eat me alive!"

"Suppose I untie you, and we talk this out?" Treville's voice was measured and calm. "You are emotional, and the effects of the drugs are just wearing off. You are in no condition to have such a discussion with Athos right now, let alone Charlotte."

"Then what about Aramis and Porthos?! Please, at least let me see them! I worked so hard to become a musketeer—to become one of them. Now they must hate me." He stared at the ceiling, his eyes full of despair. "What have I done?"

* * *

**It continues to be a busy night at Fontainebleau...for more than one couple. However, Milady seems to have the busiest dance card, between balancing assignations or meetings with the King, Gilles, Rochefort, and Andrés. Thank you again to all who are following, reviewing, and favoriting-your support means so much!**


	42. Chapter 42

_"A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person."_

Mignon McLaughlin

* * *

**CHAPTER XLII**

Milady's deft fingers began to unlace Andrés' breeches, and he closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation of having a beautiful woman pay court to him. Just when he thought he had succeeded in banishing all thoughts of his present anguish, the image of his distraught wife carrying Catalina out of the room flashed through his mind.

_What am I doing? I am punishing Annette for something that happened before she even met me…and now I am ready to dishonour our marriage vows—when I have no real proof that she has ever been unfaithful to me._

He opened his eyes, and his hands stayed Milady's. "Enough."

"You want to move on to the main event?" she purred, standing up and reaching for his shirt. "I'm more than happy to accommodate you."

"You misunderstand me. I have had enough."

Milady's eyes darkened. "If it is your conscience that troubles you, I advise you to ignore it. I doubt our respective spouses paid it any mind."

Quickly relacing his breeches, Andrés stared at her. "I know my wife to be a good and honest woman, and I love her. Drink and emotion had suspended my better judgement for a bit, but thank God I have recovered my senses. I bid you good night." What that, he strode out of the library, leaving a furious Milady in his wake.

Moments later, he entered their suite of rooms. Closing the door behind him, he first went to Catalina's bed. The little girl was asleep, her doll in her arms and her thumb in her mouth. Andrés' heart constricted, as he knew she only resorted to that childish comfort when very upset. Kissing her on the forehead, he whispered, "I love you, princess." She snuggled under the covers, and smiled in her sleep.

Walking out of the room, he sat down in the sitting room, head in hands. _How could I have been so stupid? I was ready to throw everything away…to hurt the two people I love most in the world._ After several minutes, he gathered up his courage and went into the master bedroom.

Annette was asleep, curled up on her side with her hand protectively around her belly. Her pregnancy was just starting to show, and he recalled how radiant she had been while carrying Catalina. There were heavy circles under her eyes this time, and her face was thinner than he remembered. Shedding his shirt and breeches, he slid into bed and gathered her into his arms.

She stirred, and blinked at him, her eyes heavy with sleep. "Andrs?"

"Annette, please forgive me! I have been so stupid, and I said some very ugly things to you. We are in uncharted waters, and you have no idea how difficult it was for me to hear that Catalina is not my flesh and blood." His voice broke, and he swallowed, then continued. "My pride was hurt more than anything, and I nearly did something that would have broken your trust in me forever."

"What have you done?" Her voice was thin with panic.

"I-I went to the library, and drank—heavily. Milady de Winter found me there, and proceeded to make it known she was available to comfort me. I was sorely tempted, Annette…." He buried his face in her hair. "I wanted to lose myself in that moment, and I was prepared to take her right there, in front of the fire. But then I thought of you, and Catalina…and I couldn't. Please forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," whispered Annette. "You have come back to me—and our daughter—and the little one, who I am sure will be a healthy son….and as strong and brave as his father." Putting her arms around her husband, she held him as he wept.

xxxxxxxxxx

Charlotte had taken her medication, and had finally begun to become drowsy. As she was now stable, with her pain under control, Athos had carefully moved her to the bed. He lay next to her, his arm tucked around her.

"When did you first think you might be pregnant?" he asked.

"A week or so ago. My cycle has never been exactly predictable, but something seemed—different. I was so emotional about everything, and my bodices…were more difficult to fit into. It was like my breasts had grown two sizes overnight."

"Really? How did I not notice that?!"

"You've had a lot on your mind since we got here," she murmured. "Between the King, the shooting of the falconers, d'Artagnan, Catalina, Annette, Milady, Rochefort… the list is endless."

"From now on, you and our child will be at the top of that list. I promise."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," she whispered, her fingers tracing the lifeline on his palm.

"Obviously I have my duty to the King…and that I cannot change. But once we get back to Paris, I am going to make an offer on the house the Captain showed me. There is a great deal of privacy, and it will be a wonderful place for a child. You will love the garden."

"I want a big herb garden, with thyme, yarrow, ginger…" Her words were slightly slurred, and Athos laughed softly.

"What are you laughing at?" she demanded.

"Ginger? You do know of its supposed aphrodisiac properties?"

She rolled her eyes. "Athos, is that all you think about? This is exactly why I am already quickening with child within two months of our wedding."

"As if you came reluctantly to the bridal bed!" His blue eyes glinted in mischief. "I seem to recall you tearing my clothes off before I had a chance to even say much of anything."

"I think your memory is faulty. Is this what comes of marrying an older man?"

"You are very lucky you are grievously wounded," he muttered, stroking her hair with his hand.

"How so?" she mumbled.

"Because if you were not, I would show you just how very far from an old man I am." He kissed the sensitive skin just below her ear, causing her to take in a slow breath.

"It is unfair to deploy such tactics on a woman who is injured," she murmured, turning her head to stare at him with unfocused eyes.

"All is fair in love and war," he said softly, the corner of his mouth quirking up in the little half-smile that she loved so much.

"I suppose so," she sighed. "Besides, you have me at your mercy."

"Luckily for you, I am inclined to treat you like a queen." As he gazed down at her, Charlotte felt relaxed for the first time in weeks, and closed her eyes, lacing her fingers into his.

A soft knock came at the door. "Let me see who it is," Athos murmured, kissing her cheek.

"If it is Denise and Porthos, I'd like to see them. Anyone else -except the King or Queen, of course- I will need to respectfully decline."

"Of course. You need your rest."

Opening the door, he immediately knew Porthos and Denise had an announcement to make. The musketeer stood behind Denise, his arms wrapped around he slim body. The big man had a huge grin on his face, and his joy was mirrored in the shy smile on face of his betrothed. "Is Charlotte well enough for visitors? We have some news we'd like to share with her."

"I'm guessing that congratulations are in order?" Athos asked, his eyes softening as he looked at the happy couple. Denise nodded, her eyes sparkling with excitement. He reached for her hands, and took them in his own, pressing the fingers to his lips. "I'm so glad for you both. Why don't you go on in? She's a little groggy after the pain medication, but I know she will be so happy for you."

When Denise entered the room, Athos wrapped his arms around Porthos, embracing him warmly. "I cannot tell you how happy I am for you, my friend! I was convinced I was going to be alone for the rest of my life, drinking in a rundown tavern every Christmas Eve. But you have seen how much marriage has changed me—and now, I am to be a father."

Porthos pulled away and stared at him. "Charlotte is pregnant? Congratulations!"

"We will get to share the joys of fatherhood together, as you will be Madeleine's second father."

"I know," replied the big man soberly. "I hope I am up to the task. No matter how excited she is, it will be a big change for a little girl. And I'm not sure how well Denise's mother will take the news."

"You will win her over," declared a confident Athos. "How could any mother-in-law resist your charm? After all, Denise fell in love with you much quicker than either Aramis or I had predicted. But as my estimate of the time that would be required was more accurate, he owes me 30 livres. Just remember, I had more confidence in your courtship skills, my friend."

xxxxxxx

Milady stalked down the hall, cursing Andres' change of heart. She had been so close to virtually ensuring the destruction of Annette's marriage. To have had certain victory snatched away at the last moment was beyond annoying. _What is it about Annette and Charlotte? Why was Athos willing to pledge his heart to them unconditionally, while he was so quick to condemn me to death merely on the word of a woman like Catherine? A woman who had every reason to hate me?_

Suddenly, a figure stepped out of the shadows in front of her, and she recognized Gilles. "You are very bold—or terribly stupid—to still be here. If your brother finds out…"

"He won't," replied Gilles with assurance. "And I am here to offer you an opportunity to form an alliance."

"I'm always willing to listen," Milady said slowly, her green eyes wary. "What do you have in mind?"

"I want to crush my brother. I have approached Treville, and told him the Comte de la Rochefort is a traitor. He will get the details when he agrees to support me for the Captaincy of the Red Guard."

"And how do I benefit?"

"I have already told Treville you are pretending to be in league with my brother, but are secretly working as an informer for me. If you decline my offer, you will as much as admit you in league with Rochefort. Time to make a choice, Milady. Do you want to live, or die?"

* * *

**A little more happiness in this chapter...perhaps the calm before the storm? As several have pointed out, the Archangels are still at large...**


	43. Chapter 43

_"Be not the slave of your own past-plunge into the sublime seas, dive deep, and swim far, so you shall come back with new self-respect, with new power, and with an advanced experience that shall explain and overlook the old."_

Ralph Waldo Emerson

* * *

**CHAPTER XLIII**

Milady stared at Gilles Rochefort, her eyes narrowing. "You are implying that the King would take your word over mine—and that is a very foolish assumption. I have more influence with the King than you could possibly imagine. Now get out of my way, and stop wasting my time."

She brushed by him and was gone before he could recover his wits enough to reply. His hands curled into fists as he recalled the insolent look on Milady's face. She was just like his brother. _They think I am incompetent and stupid. I'll show them_.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Denise caught her breath when she saw Charlotte lying on the bed. Her cousin was paler than she had ever seen her. Her eyes were glassy when they turned to look at her visitor, but she summoned up a wan smile.

"Denise…" Her voice was a mere whisper. "What's happened?" Even in a semi-conscious state, Charlotte could see that Denise was practically vibrating with happiness. "Has Porthos….?"

The seamstress nodded, and her eyes filled with tears of joy. "Charlotte, he asked me to marry him!"

"Now we will be sisters-in-arms—both wives of musketeers," murmured Charlotte. Her body stiffened slightly, and she reached for her cousin's hand. "It's so odd, Denise. I was just thinking about how my life has changed completely since Christmas Eve. When when I stop and think about it, I really have no idea what it is like to be a wife on a day to day basis…does that make sense? I mean, I know rationally what it involves, but my mother died when I was so young, and my life at the apothecary revolved around my father and our work. We were busy from dawn to dusk, and there was no time for me to ever even flirt with any of the local boys—and even if there had been time, I was too shy."

Denise smoothed the hair back from Charlotte's forehead, hoping that the soothing gesture would calm her cousin's worries. "No one really knows what marriage will be like beforehand. I certainly didn't. There will be joy and sorrow, and you will be angry at each other at times, but I have no doubt that you and Athos will be happy."

Charlotte's eyes clouded. "It is hard to imagine myself as the wife of a musketeer…sometimes I don't know if I will be able to handle the uncertainty. When I first met Athos, his life seemed so…romantic, and full of adventure…and it is to some extent, but it is also dangerous and exhausting…with long periods away from home."

"My dear, you are in pain, and have just come through a horrific experience. Just try to rest, and don't upset yourself with these thoughts."

A tear rolled down Charlotte's cheek, and she turned her head away from Denise. "How can I not think about it? If d'Artagnan had stabbed me a little higher, I might be lying here dead."

"Athos loves you, Charlotte," murmured the seamstress, tucking the blankets around her cousin, who had begun to shiver.

"I know…" Charlotte's voice trailed off for a few minutes, and she bit her lip, trying to fight back the emotions that were causing her stomach to churn. "But Denise…are husbands_ always_ so complicated? I thought I would have Athos figured out by now, but he's a man of contradictions...he can be loving and kind one moment, and aloof and almost insensitive the next!"

Denise sighed, and smiled ruefully. "Charlotte, I was married to Alain for five years, and I was learning new things about him up until the day he died. As human beings, all of us, whether male or female, have parts of ourselves that we keep locked away-even from those we love."

"But that's just it!" Charlotte's eyes were full of anguish. "Athos has been through so much—with Milady, and his brother's death-and to some degree he is still damaged by what happened." She hesitated, then said in a rush, "It doesn't help to have Milady—and Annette—here. How many new wives have to spend a week under the same roof with two women her husband has made love to? One who was his wife, and the other who is the mother of his only child?"

"Charlotte, you must remember that Athos has chosen to be with you," Denise said softly. "I have seen the way he looks at you, and you must never doubt how much he loves you."

"Enough about me." Charlotte wiped her eyes, and put a brave smile on her face. "I am so thrilled for you! We should be talking about your future, not focusing on me. How did he propose?! I want to hear all about it."

Denise's face lit up, and she sat down by her cousin's side. "You may regret giving me carte blanche to talk about Porthos."

xxxxxxxxx

Milady had no sooner left Gilles and stalked down a side corridor when she ran into one of the King's pages. "Milady de Winter! I—I've been looking for you everywhere!" The nervous young man stammered, wringing his hands. His uncertain manner only served to annoy Milady.

"Well, you've found me. Now leave."

The page swallowed, and muttered, "I can't do that, my lady. The King requests your presence in the royal bedchamber this evening."

"He does, does he?" Milady's eyes had gone cold, and the page took a step back. "Tell me, who was His Majesty with earlier?"

"I-I have no idea, my lady." The young man's eyes flicked away from hers, and he shifted uneasily. "I need for you to come with me now."

Milady's hand casually slid to a hidden pocket in her skirts, and she pulled out a knife. In a flash, she had the page against the wall with a knife at his throat. "And I need for you to answer my question. I can tell you're lying to me, and l have little patience with liars." The point of the blade pricked the skin under his throat, and he whimpered.

"For God's sake, stop your whining!" she snapped. "All I want from you is the name of the woman he was with. Tell me, and I'll let you go. Lie to me again, and I'll kill you without a second thought."

"I think-I think—I don't know her name!" his voice was thin and desperate. "But I can describe her—pretty, with long dark hair, and grey eyes."

"The seamstress?" Milady's voice was full of disgust. "She's a common peasant woman!"

"He didn't-" the page's throat constricted with panic, and he fumbled for words.

"He didn't what?!"

"His Majesty didn't sleep with her!" the young man blurted out. "She must have displeased him somehow. He sent her away before they even finished dinner!"

"Interesting," Milady murmured. "And what did His Majesty do then?"

"He asked for me to fetch his jewel cask, and sent me to find you."

A dazzling smile lit up her features, and she transformed from a predatory assassin into an ethereally beautiful enchantress. "Well, it appears that the evening is taking a turn for the better." Milady slowly trailed the knife down his throat until she had it pointed directly at the base. The page froze, and almost forgot to breathe.

"Now you be a good boy, and run along," she whispered, gently touching her lips to his for just an instant. "You will forget that we ever had this conversation, and you will never mention it to the King. Trust me, you do not want to make an enemy of me. By the end of the night, my position at court will be more secure than ever. Do you understand?"

He nodded numbly, and she removed the dagger from his throat. "Tell His Majesty that I shall be glad to spend the evening with him. Now go inform the King that I am on my way." The page was off in a flash, and her heart soared. She knew very well how the evening would play out. The King would beg her forgiveness, then offer her some small token, hoping to smooth things over quickly. The last time this had happened, Milady had spied an emerald and diamond necklace that the Queen had worn at a reception earlier that year. The jewels had sparkled when paired with Anne's fair coloring, but Milady knew that the necklace would look even more stunning paired with her green eyes, dark hair, and creamy complexion. She would accept nothing less than that piece—not after Louis had tried to dismiss her for the evening in order to warm his bed with a peasant.

When she glided into the royal bedchamber, her head was held high. The King stood up rather than waiting for her to curtsy, and she forced herself to hold back a smirk._ He is anxious to make amends._

"Milady de Winter," he murmured, taking her hand and kissing it. "You are ravishing as usual."

She looked at him with reproach. "I thought perhaps you had tired of me, Your Majesty."

"Not at all," Louis said hastily, giving her a broad smile. "I merely needed some time to review some pressing matters of state."

"I hope everything is in order." She glanced up at him sweetly. "If you are too distracted, I should allow you some time alone. Perhaps you need to unwind in peace."

"I would prefer to unwind with your body by my side." His eyes drifted to the bed, and he giggled.

"You know how disappointed I get when I don't have your full attention," she murmured, her expression becoming pensive. "I get the sense you are still troubled."

The King walked over to an elaborately carved cabinet, and threw back the doors. He fixed his gaze on her, then slowly withdrew the jewel casket. 'Would a token of my esteem perhaps prove how very important you are to me?"

"Perhaps." She allowed the word to slip slowly from her lips. "Because I have something to tell you that I think will make you a very happy man."

"Really?" He tilted his head and looked at her appraisingly. "What is this news?"

"May I select my gift first?" she inquired, stepping over to him and placing her hands on his chest.

"I don't recall telling you that the decision would be yours," he replied, his brown eyes becoming remote."

"I suppose you didn't use those exact words," she murmured, her gaze innocent. "But we have something to celebrate. Your Majesty, I am carrying your child."

* * *

**Thank you to all those who have reviewed and followed! I still have a few twists and turns ahead...just have to find the time to put it down on paper! Special thanks to the guest reviewers who nudged me to finally get up the next chapter!**


	44. Chapter 44

_"So__, fall asleep love, loved by me... for I know love, I am loved by thee."_

Robert Browning

* * *

**Chapter XLIV**

Louis' expression changed instantly, and he put down the jewel casket. His eyes filled with tears. "This is wonderful news! And it will show everyone that with a properly fertile woman, I could beget a dozen children if I wanted to!" He sniffled, then composed himself. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he looked down at her with solicitude. "But how are you feeling, my dear?"

"Quite well, Your Majesty," she said, giving him a confident smile. "Never better."

"You are such a strong woman!" His eyes were full of admiration. "Your spirit and vigor are so amazing—if only Anne were more like you!"

"Your Majesty has done her duty, Sire. You have the Dauphin."

"But I had to wait forever!"His voice became petulant, and he began to pace back and forth. "All those years of disappointment and worry—the nights I thought I'd die without an heir! I should never have had to suffer like that! You and I have shared a bed for only the past two months, and you are already with child! Anne should have done her duty years ago!"

He suddenly stopped, and blurted out, "Show me your hands!"

Milady extended her graceful, white hands to him.

"You gave me your hands palm down!" he whispered, barely able to contain his excitement. "You will bear me a son!"

xxxxx

As he left the King's chamber, the page finally felt his heartbeat slow to what resembled a normal rhythm. He shuddered as he thought of the King's mistress. Although she was a woman, she was more fearsome than most men he had encountered at Court. He made the sign of the Cross as he recalled her holding a dagger to his neck, then gently kissing him. There was no way the woman was entirely human.

He turned to the right, heading down the hallway to the servants' quarters. The end of his duty day was drawing near, and the promise of a warm, comfortable bed finally caused him to relax. The boy never saw the arm that reached out from a curtained alcove, and yanked him inside.

"If you make a sound, you are dead. Do you understand?" A hand that smelled of musk and cedar covered his mouth. The page nodded, eyes wide with terror. He could not see the man who held him, the strength of his grip was vise-like.

"You work with the King. Yes?" Another nod.

"And you know who he values?" Hesitation, then a nod.

"Obviously there is the Queen, and Milady de Winter. Who else does the King favour? I hear he had a dinner guest earlier tonight. Who was she?" The fingers parted ever so slightly over his mouth, and the boy gasped, "The pretty lady with the grey eyes—and dark hair. The seamstress."

The hand clamped down again, covering his mouth and nose this time. "Did he bed her?" His captor's breath was warm on his skin, and the page struggled to get air into his lungs. He frantically shook his head.

"Ah, so not yet. But he is interested?" The boy nodded vigorously, his vision beginning to dim.

"You've been very helpful." The hold over his mouth and nose strengthened, and the page began to whimper in the back of his throat. He heard his assailant take in a breath. An instant later, his neck was twisted violently, and he was no more.

Gilles Rochefort carefully arranged his victim's body on the window seat, smoothing the wrinkles in his linen doublet, and crossing the boy's hands over his chest. He stood back and admired his work, then leaned over the corpse, and whispered, "When you get to the pearly gates, tell St. Peter not to expect me anytime soon."

xxxxx

After a few moments of chatting, Denise saw how exhausted her cousin was. She squeezed Charlotte's hand, and gave her a sympathetic smile. "I can tell you the rest tomorrow—you're practically nodding off right now."

"I'm so sorry, darling…" Charlotte's voice was hoarse, and barely audible. "It's not that I'm not excited for you…it has been my dearest wish to see you find love again. To see that wish come true is more than I could have hoped for. We will be able to raise our children together…and they will hopefully be as close as we are." Her voice trailed off, and she fell into a deep sleep.

"I'd like that...more than anything," Denise whispered, kissing her cousin's forehead. "We will be there for each other, in good times and bad—and we will learn how to be musketeers' wives together. I love you, Charlotte—you are my sister in my heart, if not by blood. Sweet dreams."

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and instinctively knew it was Porthos. She turned to him, her grey eyes misting with tears. "She looks so fragile, Porthos."

"Charlotte is strong," he murmured. "Just like someone else I know. And more importantly, she has something to fight for."

Denise smiled at Athos, who stood slightly behind his friend. "Yes, I believe she may actually be fond of you, Athos."

Porthos grinned. "She's fond of him alright—and we'll soon have living proof of that."

She gave him a searching look. "You look like the cat that got the cream. What are you hinting at?"

Athos spoke, his voice thick with emotion. "Charlotte is carrying our child, Denise."

She clapped her hands over her mouth. Tears fell freely down her cheeks, and she reached for Athos, taking him into her arms.

"She loves you. Oh, Athos, how she loves you." Denise was weeping in earnest.

"I know." The lieutenant's usually stoic voice broke, and Porthos gently drew his fiancée away.

"We'll leave you now," murmured the big man. He guided Denise towards the door, then turned and wrapped Porthos in a bear hug. "Charlotte's got you and the babe to live for. She'll pull through."

Athos nodded, feeling completely numb. When the door closed, he pulled off his boots, then slipped under the covers, drawing Charlotte against him. His right hand settled protectively over her belly, and he lay still for a moment, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

He recalled a book of poems by Louise Labbé that his father had kept in the library at la Fère. As a young man, he had read the emotional stanzas and found them ridiculous. Now, as a husband and a father-to-be, he understood the depth of emotion that had moved the poet to write her works.

Entwining his fingers with those of Charlotte, he began to murmur to her in a low voice.

_"I live, I die: I drown and I burn,  
I endure at once extreme heat and cold;  
Life is at once too soft and too hard_."

He planted a soft kiss on the nape of her neck, then whispered, "I'm drowning without you, my love…and I burn for you, more than you can ever know. Heal, and come back to me—I swear you will never regret marrying me. Never."

* * *

**I promised I'd be back! Thank you to all who have been patiently waiting for an update...and to Megan, the guest reviewer who posted today, a special thank you for nudging me to finish this chapter. More soon...**


	45. Chapter 45

_"Forgiveness says that you are given another chance to make a new beginning."_

Desmond Tutu

* * *

**CHAPTER XLV**

The first rays of the pale winter sun were just beginning to show above the horizon when Treville went in search of Porthos and Aramis. D'Artagnan had been insistent about seeing his brothers. As the young musketeer's mind seemed to have cleared, the Captain had reluctantly agreed. However, he had not thought it advisable for Athos to be the first of his comrades for d'Artagnan to encounter.

Unbeknownst to Treville, Athos had already set out to look for his protégé. The lieutenant had lain awake much of the night next to Charlotte, watching her sleep peacefully in the small hours of the morning, As he had listened to her even breathing, Athos had finally been convinced that she and their child were out of the serious danger. It was then that his thoughts had turned to the Gascon.

Athos knew that the young man would be guilt-stricken once he was made aware of the events that had taken place prior evening. He had seen the glazed look in d'Artagnan's eyes after the attack, and was well aware that he had been under the influence of some drug. The young musketeer he knew would never attack one of his comrades, much less an innocent woman.

_Surely Treville has been minding him_. He made his way to the Captain's room, and knocked softly on the door. When there was no answer, he opened it a crack. The Gascon was sound asleep. He lay flat on his back, his wrists and ankles still tied to the bed. Athos stepped into the chamber, and shut the door. That small sound woke up d'Artagnan with a jolt, and he was soon straining against his bonds, his eyes wild.

"D'Artagnan, you are fine. You are with us now." Athos spoke to him in a low, soothing voice.

"Athos! Oh, God…" D'Artagnan's voice was hoarse. He shut his eyes, and took in a deep, shuddering breath. "I thought I was ready to face you, but now…I don't know what to say." He forced himself to look at his mentor, his eyes full of remorse. "How does one apologize to someone for trying to kill him? And then for botching it so badly that I almost kill his wife?"

The older man was at his side by now, and pulled up a stool. "You were under the influence of some sort of potion, my friend. The second I looked into your eyes, I knew I was looking at someone who could not comprehend what he was doing. I do not blame you for actions that the real d'Artagnan—the man whom I trust with my life—would be incapable of committing."

"Is my will _really_ so weak?" muttered d'Artagnan. "What kind of man am I?! How could some sort of herb-a mere plant-cause me to act like a crazed killer? I should have been stronger-Aramis and Porthos would have fought off its effects! I know they would have!" He tried to sit up, then fell back upon the pillow, angry tears coming to his eyes. "How can you even stand to be in the same room with me? Treville obviously can't! I'm lying here tied to a bed like the despicable criminal I am!"

xxxxxxxxx

On her first night at Fontainebleau, Denise had slept poorly. That night had been followed by twenty four hours that had been full of events. In fact, as she tried to prepare for bed, her mind was still spinning. She recalled abject terror she had felt when she had seen Charlotte bleeding heavily from a knife wound...followed later by the pure bliss of having Porthos proposing to her

_I won't have to sleep alone much longer_, she thought with a rush of happiness, snuggling down into the covers. _There are only few hours left until daylight, but perhaps I can get a little bit of sleep. I'd like to sit with Charlotte for a while today. She can help me plan the wedding…it'll be small, but I have the luxury of time—even if it's just a few weeks—that she and Athos did not._

She drowsed off moments later, a sweet smile on her face.

As he stood pressed against the wall behind the large hanging tapestry in Denise's bedchamber, Gilles Rochefort tried to stem the tide of impatience that threatened to overwhelm him. Under no circumstances did he want the seamstress to make a commotion. She needed to be sound asleep before he made his move.

He had found the delay most annoying. Once he had worked out the framework of his plan, Gilles had been anxious to get underway. First, there had been the matter of finding a place to hold his captive. Obviously the area he had used for d'Artagnan was now off-limits to him. Luckily, his preening idiot of a brother thought him long gone. Even if Milady revealed to the Comte that she had seen him in the palace shortly after their falling out, Gilles had no concerns. The elder Rochefort had made it plain he did not think his brother possessed either the fortitude or the acumen to carry out a plan on his own.

_God, this woman is taking forever! What a waste of time hiding here! I had no idea she would be so stupid. She didn't even lock the door!_

It had not even crossed Denise's mind to secure the room. Distracted by the joy of her engagement, she took her time getting ready for bed. The seamstress sat brushing her hair, alternately humming and singing to herself. The song was a melody that he recognized as a medieval folk song based on the story of Robin Hood and his lady love, Maid Marian.

_"Robin loves me, Robin has me; _

_Robin asked for me, and he will have me."_

The tune seemed to be worming its way into his brain, and he found himself wishing she'd just shut up. _She's singing about the King. Thinks she's already got him exactly where she wants him. Little does she know that I'll be using her to get exactly what I want._ When the candle finally blew out, he waited a good thirty minutes before emerging from his hiding place.

Once he was satisfied that she was asleep, Gilles stepped out from the tapestry, and reached into his pocket for a small vial wrapped in cloth from his pocket. The room was nearly pitch black, but he had taken time to memorize the placement of the furniture. He made every move with care, and by the time he reached the bed, Denise was still sound asleep, lying on her right side.

Soaking the cloth in the liquid from the vial, he clamped it quickly over her nose and mouth, and pulled her back against his chest. She was awake within seconds, struggling against him with a fierceness that he found somewhat refreshing.

_Ah, this one is different! Most women are far from a challenge. They just freeze like scared rabbits when confronted with a powerful, faceless adversary. So boring._

When she finally relaxed against him in a stupor, he was almost disappointed, but then realized that she'd be awake in a few hours...and then the game would begin again. _Perhaps this will be more entertaining that I thought._

xxxxx

Athos regarded d'Artagnan coldly. "Let me know when you done with the dramatics. I've my wife to see to."

"Oh, so now you rub my face in it?" hissed d'Artagnan, struggling against the ropes.

"Enough! You listen to me!" Athos stood up, his eyes full of fury. "If I can come here and freely forgive you, you can damn well stop wallowing in your own self-pity!"

D'Artagnan stared at him in shock.

"Yes, you heard me correctly!" snapped Athos. "How can I blame you, d'Artagnan? You were not in control of your own mind! But for us to be able to move on and work together, we need to get past this, right here, right now! If you can't accept my forgiveness and let go of the guilt… _then_ I will consider you weak—because I won't be able to trust you to think clearly or to make rational decisions. You will be worthless to me….as a musketeer and as a friend."

The Gascon fixed his eyes on the ceiling for several long minutes. Athos remained silent, allowing his protégé to turn over the words in his brain at his own pace. Finally, the young man's dark eyes met his, and he nodded. "I accept your forgiveness…on one condition. I want to talk to Charlotte."

xxxxxxx

"Have you thought about names?" The King was wide awake, and it was only 7 o' clock. Milady wished heartily that he had slept until at least 10, as was his custom.

She stifled a yawn, and turned to face him. Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders as she reached for his hand. "Not yet, Your Majesty. After all, I think it only proper for the King of France to be able to name his own child."

"Quite so!" he exclaimed, an approving smile on his face. "One of the things I adore about you, Milady de Winter, is that you know your place. So many women do not. Even my own wife has shown a dangerous tendency to question my judgement at times."

"Surely not!" The shock on Milady's face warmed the King's heart.

"It _is_ disturbing, isn't it?" He smiled at her, and patted her hand. "But I shouldn't upset you. I know it is not easy for you to hear about my troubles."

"But that's what I am here for, Sire." Your green eyes were troubled now. "You must never be afraid to share with me what is on your mind! I couldn't bear for you to have no one to share the burden with!"

Tears came to his eyes. "You understand what it is like, don't you?" He sniffled, then his expression hardened. "The Queen has no idea what I must face every day. _No idea_! You are truly a treasure, Milady. And I swear to you that our son—and his mother—will want for nothing."

* * *

**I'll be interested to hear your comments about Athos and d'Artagnan's conversation. I am sure some would envision it playing out differently. We'll see if it has the desired effect. Thank you for all your reviews and follows!**


	46. Chapter 46

"_Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before."_

_ Edgar Allan Poe_

* * *

**CHAPTER XLVI**

When Athos slipped back into the room, he was relieved to see that Charlotte was still asleep. He took off his boots and jacket, then laid down next to her. Her eyelids fluttered open, and she sighed. "I actually dreamt we were back in Paris, and were living in the house you told me about."

"You remember that?" Athos fought back the tears that threatened to fill his eyes. He reached out and touched her check. His fingers were warm, and Charlotte turned her face into his palm.

"Vaguely…it must have been when I was floating in and out of consciousness. I know you mentioned exposed beams...and an herb garden…and that our bedroom would face east."

"Exactly." His expression became tender, and he kissed her softly on the forehead. "It will be everything you desire."

"You are all I desire," she murmured. "And it was your image that finally chased away the dark thoughts."

"What thoughts?" A feeling of uneasiness began to steal over him.

She averted her eyes, and her voice trailed off. "I keep seeing him—every time I close my eyes."

He stroked her hair. "You're reliving the attack, aren't you?" When she nodded, he lifted her chin to look into her eyes. "This is entirely natural, Charlotte. It has happened to many of the men in the regiment—Aramis is only one of them. You'll find it gets better with time."

"I want it to be better now." Her words were barely a whisper.

"I can understand that, but-these things take time, love—even for women as resilient as you."

She took in a deep breath, and summoned up a wan smile. "You're right. I suppose I can't rush the healing—physical or mental."

"There is something that might help." Athos took a moment to carefully frame his next words. "I've just been to see d'Artagnan." Her hold on his hand tightened almost imperceptibly, but she remained silent. "Charlotte, he feels terribly about what happened—the guilt is almost eating him alive. He wants to see you—to apologize, and to beg your forgiveness."

"Are you seeking to help d'Artagnan, or to help me?"

Her question took him aback for an instant. "I want to help both of you, of course."

"Athos—I just told you that I keep seeing d'Artagnan every time I close my eyes. And I don't see the dedicated young man from Gascony that you train in the garrison courtyard, or the fun-loving, puppy-eyed charmer has captured Constance's heart…I see a man consumed with hatred, slashing at me—and my unborn child—with a knife. How can you ask this of me so soon?"

"I understand, Charlotte, but—"

"No, you don't understand, Athos! Violence is part of your world, not mine! Yes, I have seen death and blood when I helped my father treat patients—when I treated you. But I never asked for this to be part of my day to day life!"

"Darling, when you married me, you knew what I was. A musketeer's life is not easy or predictable. Neither is life for his family. But you must know that I will protect you with my life."

"Athos, we're not talking about you being an hour late for supper, or a three-day mission turning into a week-we're discussing me—and our baby-almost being killed—as I slept by your side! You were with me—and even then you couldn't protect me."

His eyes became remote, and his voice cracked with emotion. "Do you think I haven't thought about that? How I failed you? I try not to think about it, because it makes me feel like I don't deserve any of this. I couldn't protect my brother, could I? I thought when I met you that my fortunes had turned…that God had finally forgiven me, even though I haven't forgiven myself. But now once again I almost lost someone dear to me. How am I fit to be a husband—or a father?"

His anguish filled Charlotte with compassion. "Let me ask you this. What did you tell d'Artagnan when you went to see him?"

"I told him that that none of what happened was his fault. That I know the kind of man he is, and know that he would have never done what he did if he hadn't been in his right mind. And I told him that if he didn't stop wallowing in his guilt, that he would be worthless—that he would be…." His voice trailed off as he recognized his own words were being turned on himself.

"Athos, everything you've done since your brother's death… joining the Musketeers, drinking too much too often, refusing to allow people to get close to you—was it worth it? Did it help you feel less guilty?"

"Joining the musketeers—yes. It allowed me to leave my past behind. I didn't want the trappings or the memories of the estate. I didn't want the responsibility of deciding what to do with the hours of my day. I wanted structure and purpose—the garrison gave me both."

"And the drinking? And isolation?"

"I'd be lying if I didn't say there were nights that I loved wine more than life itself. It made the long hours I was alone tolerable. Sometimes it lifted my mood to the extent that I would venture out on an excursion to the Wren with the others. But it was never enough to completely wipe away the pain—to drink enough for that to happen would have been to make myself unfit for duty. And I was not going to do that. Just like I was never going to marry, or to allow the twisted legacy of my family to be passed to a new generation."

"What changed?" Charlotte's clear hazel eyes seemed to see into Athos' soul. He suddenly felt like a seven-year-old boy in the confessional, eager to lay his deepest thoughts bare.

"You. You changed me." He took her hand. "There's something I've never told you. When I woke up in a bedroom at the Palace on Christmas Eve-and realized I was still alive—I cursed God. I had meant to save Aramis, and I'd been fully prepared to die. But then you appeared by my side. You were so calm, and radiated such peace. You were like an angel—and had the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen. Do you remember what I said to you then?"

"How could I forget? It was so devastatingly honest. You said, 'I often thought I was ready to die. Now, I am not so sure.' Were you—" her voice caught "—referring to me?"

He nodded. "You made me believe that there was still beauty to be found in life."

A tear slid down her cheek. "You have no idea how much that touches my heart."

"Oh, I think I do." He smiled, and kissed her.

"Then I will see him." Her voice was so low that Athos almost missed what she had said. "For you, I will see him. But I cannot pretend it will be easy for me, Athos. Rationally I know he is not to blame, but when I see him in my mind with that knife-" she shuddered. "You must promise to be by my side, holding my hand, when he comes in through that door. I will not be alone with him. It wouldn't be fair to me, or to him. I don't want to sabotage his healing by saying or doing something thoughtless. If you see that happening, you must stop me."

"I promise."

"Then ask someone to fetch him now, before I lose my nerve."

Athos went to the door, then stopped. He faced the door, and toyed with the handle as he spoke. "Before I met you, I had long since stopped talking to—or believing in—God. And when I regained consciousness in the Palace, my first acknowledgement of God in six odd years was to curse Him for preserving my life. Aramis has intimated that there was a reason you were summoned to my bedside that night, and perhaps he is right. I am aware that baptizing our child is important to you, and I want you to know that I will give my consent." Without another word, he left.

Charlotte closed her eyes, and laid back on the pillow. Her hand went to the la Fére signet ring on the chain around her neck, and she closed her fingers around it. _I'm going to be a mother._

xxxx

Porthos had slept a bit later than usual that morning. When he opened his eyes, he saw Aramis sitting in a comfortable armchair, reading what appeared to be a prayer book.

"I was wondering when you were going to wake up, my friend." Closing the slim volume, he tucked it inside his leather coat. "I have to tell you that I am most upset with you. Honestly, Porthos. You go and get engaged, and I'm the last to hear about it?"

"Not the last," said Porthos with a grin. "D'Artagnan and the Captain don't know yet."

"Well, at least I rank above the man who routinely sends us out to risk our necks—and above the new puppy. Most people would be tempted by those big brown eyes."

"Ah, but I'm not just anyone." Porthos' booming laugh filled the room. "And you know full well you're my type, not the puppy."

Aramis grinned. "The lovely Denise has no idea what she is getting into. Shall I fill her in on some of your more—noteworthy exploits? Perhaps the night at Madame Angel's when you were seen in pearls and silk?"

"I was undercover," growled Porthos. "And Denise doesn't need to ever hear the words "Madame Angel's." Am I understood?"

"My lips are sealed." The marksman gave him a bright smile. "So, when do I get to offer my congratulations to your intended?"

"I suppose we could stop by the library on the way to round up the falconers. She said she'd be there doing some sewing."

Fifteen minutes later, the two musketeers walked into the library to find it empty, save Annette and Catalina. The little girl was in her mother's lap, listening to her read from a gilded storybook that Porthos guessed was part of the Queen's collection.

"Good morning, Senora." Aramis made a little bow, and put his hat to his heart. "You and your daughter make a pretty tableaux-in fact, you put the sun to shame."

Catalina giggled, and Annette smiled. "You certainly have the charm of a courtier, Monsieur Aramis."

"It's just inborn for some," he replied breezily. "Others, like this goliath next to me, need a little help."

Porthos gave him a pointed glare, then bowed and bid them good morning. "May I ask if you have seen Denise this morning?"

"No, we haven't. At least not here in the library—and we've been here for nigh on an hour."

"But it must be at least eight! Denise never sleeps past six o' clock. She's an early bird—just like most people who live in the country. She told me she'd be in the library by half past six."

Annette shrugged. "Perhaps she went down to the kitchen to get a bite to eat—or maybe she decided just to sew in her room."

Porthos glanced at Aramis once they went out into the hall. "Something is wrong."

"But as Annette said-"

"No, Aramis. I can feel it." The big man's body was practically vibrating with tension. "This isn't right. She said she'd be there this morning, and she's not."

"I think the newly-engaged protective male instinct is kicking in, but if it will make you feel better, let's check the kitchen and her room."

"You check the kitchen—" called out Porthos, already striding down the hallway. "I'll check her room. It'll be faster if we split up."

The Spaniard shook his head as he set off for the kitchen, amused at the prospect of a newly domesticated Porthos. "I can see it now—we'll be at their house, and he'll panic when he loses track of her for five seconds. _She said she was going to the living room, and she's not there_!" he mimicked under his breath. And I'll say_, Porthos, even your lovely wife has to use the privy now and again!"_

Porthos knocked on Denise's door, but received no answer. After the second knock brought no acknowledgement, he tried the handle. Finding it unlocked, he opened it a crack, and called out, "Denise?" When there was no response, he entered the room. The bed was in disarray, with one of the pillows lying on the floor. Porthos instinctively put his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Denise? Are you here?"

His eyes fell on her wicker sewing basket. It had toppled off the small nightstand near the bed, and lay on its side on the floor. Spools of thread were scattered about, and a pair of blue mittens that she was knitting for Madeleine were lying half under the basket.

Panic suddenly seized hold of him. _She is gone…and she didn't go willingly._

* * *

**Next time...Charlotte comes face to face with D'Artagnan, and Denise is in a very bad place. **


	47. Chapter 47

_"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage."_

Lao Tzu

* * *

**CHAPTER XLVII**

Athos returned a moment later, and sat down by her side, taking her hand in his. "The Captain will be here with him in a minute or two."

Charlotte turned pale, and gripped his hand tighter. "Are you sure you're ready?" Athos asked softly.

"Yes." She lifted her chin, and gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Just then, a knock came on the door, and Treville stepped in.

"Charlotte. I'm so relieved to see you!" The Captain's face was etched with relief. He took her small hand in his, and kissed it gently. "Are you are up to this?"

"The longer I wait, the harder it will get. Please, bring him in."

"Very well." Treville went back outside for a moment, and she heard a low murmur of voices. Seconds later, d'Artagnan appeared. His face was drawn, and he appeared haggard. Charlotte thought she had steeled herself for his entrance, but she found herself instinctively shrinking against Athos.

"Charlotte…" The Gascon dropped to his knees in front of her, his voice hoarse. "I—have no words to express my sorrow for what I have done. I was not in my right mind, and I beg your forgiveness. You know that Athos has been like a second father to me. I would give my life to protect you and your unborn child."

When his dark brown eyes met hers, she began to feel lightheaded. A burning pressure built in her chest, and seemed to be pressing every last bit of air out of her lungs. As she struggled to breathe, Athos felt her begin to tremble against him.

"What's wrong?" he asked urgently.

"I can't—I can't breathe!"

D'Artagnan froze, stricken at the look of terror he saw on her face. At once, a strong arm lifted him up, and propelled him out of the room. Once they were out in the corridor, Treville shut the door behind them firmly. "I knew this was a bad idea!" he snapped. "She was not ready for this. You knew it, and Athos knew it. But you were both so blinded by your need to assuage your guilt that you had to push forward irregardless. And now Charlotte is going to be the one to suffer!"

xxx

The first thing that Denise realized when she regained consciousness was that she was bound, hand and foot. It was pitch-dark. A gag cut into the corners of her mouth, pressing her tongue against the bottom of her mouth. With effort, she turned on to her side, and kicked. Her bare feet immediately hit cold, smooth stone.

She then bent from the waist. Within seconds, her head made contact with the opposite wall. She took in a deep breath, fighting the urge to panic. The air was stale and damp, and smelled of mold. Forcing herself to remain calm, she lay still and listened. There was only silence.

Her mouth was dry. She was incredibly thirsty. Denise thought of the pitcher of water that had been standing by her bed, and heartily wished she had drank more before she had gone to bed. As if on cue, her stomach began to rumble. _How many hours have passed? I have no idea what time it is._

She struck out with her bound feet once more, instantly hitting the wall behind her. She tried to scream, but only a muffled cry came out. The noise reverberated around her, and terror struck her heart. Mindless of the rope cutting into her ankles, she pounded her feet against the walls, crying over and over.

A scraping noise came from above her. She pressed her body against the wall, blinking against the light of the torch that suddenly appeared above her head. A man in a black mask calmly peered down at her.

"I apologize for the accommodations. I so wish I could offer you something more pleasant, but for now, I need to keep you secreted away. And who would think to look here, in the old storage area under the chapel?" His mouth twisted into a smirk. "I quite like the irony though. The King's paramour, being held captive in a sarcophagus that was meant for one of his ancestor's mistresses."

_I'm not his mistress!_ Denise shook her head vigorously, her eyes pleading.

"Don't try to deny it. I know all about you and the King. You have been chosen by me, my dear, to play a very important part in a little drama that is about unfold here at Fontainebleau. Unfortunately, your role is likely to end somewhat tragically, but you will have served the purpose for which I have selected you. For right now, though, I need you to be cooperative—at least if you want to have something to slake your thirst. I expect you'd do just about anything for a glass of water right now, wouldn't you?"

xxx

"Charlotte, stay with me!" Athos was alarmed at the ashen color of her face. "Slow, deep breaths…" He involuntarily glanced at the door, and Charlotte could not help but notice.

"Don't—you—dare!" she gasped, angry tears flooding her eyes. "If you walk out that door right now to check on him…I…" She bit her lip, and shook her head. "I should never have let you talk me into this! I knew I wasn't ready….but you wanted it so badly…because it was for d'Artagnan. God forbid you put your pregnant wife first!"

Athos was at a loss for what to say. He remained silent for a moment, gently rocking her in his arms. Finally, he said hesitantly, "But Charlotte-you did agree to see him."

"Because I wanted to please you!" She was sobbing now. "Why couldn't you understand how I felt? I told you that I see him every time I close my eyes!"

"I'm sorry, my love. I should not have pressed you." Remorse flooded through his heart. "Would you like me to get Denise?"

"No! I want you!"

After a few minutes, she finally quieted, and he kissed her forehead.

"Charlotte, there is only one thing you need do to in order to please me. From now on, you must tell me what is in your heart, not what you think I want to hear. Promise me you will do so in the future. I cannot stand to think of you feeling that you need to hide your thoughts from me."

"I promise," she whispered, gazing up at him.

"Good." He smiled, and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. "Now give me a kiss."

"Why?" she asked innocently, a hint of her old flirtatiousness appearing in her eyes. "Haven't I already done everything I need to do in order to please you?"

Athos tilted her chin up, his voice turning husky. "Perhaps you are right. So I shall make it my task to please you instead." He traced a path across her cheek with his lips, then settled on her mouth. The kiss he gave her was sweet, but thorough, and left her breathless. He moved on to her neck, then to the curve of her breasts, careful not to put any pressure on her wound.

"Now you are just teasing me," Charlotte murmured with a smile. Her eyes were hazy with desire as she combed her fingers through his hair. "You know very well that I am in no condition to make love to you right now."

"Charlotte, you weren't listening to me," he murmured reprovingly, sliding down to her waist and kissing her belly. He glanced up at her with a wicked grin, while one hand skimmed her chemise up to her thigh. "I plan to please _you_. No effort is required on your part."

"Athos! It hasn't been that long since I was stabbed! What would Aramis say?"

"He would say you are a very lucky woman. Now just lie still, sweetheart. If you start to squirm too much, I shall have to restrain you. I am well aware of how enthusiastic you can get."

"Athos…you…shouldn't…" She arched her back as her free hand reached for the sheets, twisting the smooth fabric between her fingers.

"Please what?"

A gasp of pleasure from her sent a surge of happiness into his heart. "You are mine, Charlotte," he muttered. "I have never been much for words, so let me show you how much I love you."

She closed her eyes, surrendering to the knowledge that she was truly cherished by the man who had won her heart.

xxx

Porthos stormed down the hallway, barely able to keep his fury under control. Aramis came around a corner, and knew at once that the news was bad. He fell into step beside the big man, struggling to keep up with his pace.

"She's gone," Porthos muttered, his hands balling into fists. "And I'm gonna kill the bastard who took her. God help him if he does so much as harm a hair on her head."

"Are you sure that she—"

"Aramis, her bed was torn apart!" he snapped. "All her sewin' things were scattered across the floor! Someone took her, alright."

The marksman seized his comrade's arm. "Look, let's find the Captain. If mount an organized search, we have a much better chance of finding her as soon as possible."

"You find the Captain!" snarled Porthos, shaking his friend's arm off and stalking down the hall. "I am not wasting one second!"

"Alright, but let's at least make a plan of where to meet up! The entrance to the garden in say, a half an hour or so?"

Porthos raised a hand briefly in acknowledgement, then disappeared down the stairs.

* * *

**Work has been kinder of late (finally!) so hopefully more soon. Thank you for sticking with me! Your reviews are appreciated more than you know! :-)**


	48. Chapter 48

_"All brave men love; for he only is brave who has affections to fight for, whether in the daily battle of life, or in physical contests_."

Nathaniel Hawthorne

* * *

**CHAPTER XLVIII**

Charlotte lay back on the pillows, her face still flushed. "My father warned me about men like you," she murmured, smiling as she traced his jawline with her finger.

"And what did he say?" inquired Athos, giving her a teasing grin.

"That I'd become a slave to your appetites….and so I have."

He laughed out loud, and the sound of his laughter made her heart lighten. "Charlotte, I believe it is you who have become my master." Planting a kiss on her cheek, he took her hand in his. "Look at me—it's nearly nine o'clock, and I'm still in bed with my wife. What kind of a musketeer am I? Treville will have me drummed out of the regiment."

She scoffed. "I highly doubt that. Besides, you have been providing the best of care to your seriously injured pregnant wife. Surely even the Captain will grant you some leeway."

At that moment, a sharp knock was heard at the door. "Athos? Charlotte?"

"Aramis," she whispered, kissing him one last time. "Evidently you are being recalled to duty."

He sighed, and called, "Come in!" Anticipating a ribald comment from his comrade, he sat up, and began to tuck his shirt in.

"Athos, we need you. Now." The marksman's eyes were intense, and Athos immediately pulled on his boots.

"What's wrong?" Charlotte felt uneasy as she watched the marksman pace the room.

He flashed a quick smile at her, but his eyes were still guarded. "Just the usual—defense of the kingdom and all that."

She narrowed her eyes. "You're not telling me the whole story, Aramis. I can tell."

He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the forehead. "Everything's fine, my dear. Just rest."

"Athos?" Her gaze turned to her husband, and he saw her concern.

"I'll be back before you know it. How about I send Denise in to sit with you?"

Aramis spoke up. "Denise is actually busy at the moment—apparently the Queen has a dress that needed mending."

"Well, she can just bring it here." Charlotte's face brightened. "I always enjoy having a good chat with her while she's working."

"I'm afraid that's not possible," replied Aramis smoothly. "The Queen is reviewing her wardrobe with Denise as she works. I expect several very nice commissions may come out of it for our little seamstress."

"That's wonderful!" exclaimed Charlotte. "I wouldn't dream of disturbing her. I'll be fine by myself, Athos. Maybe I'll even get a nap in. You've tired me out."

Aramis usually would have picked up on the lingering look husband and wife exchanged, but he was already at the door, checking the priming on his pistol one last time. The tension in his body worried Charlotte more than she cared to admit. An instant later, they were gone.

xxxx

Gilles held up a pitcher of water, and slowly filled a goblet. He then lifted it to his lips, and took several swallows, his eyes trained on Denise's.

"Some people say Fontainebleau has the best water in all of France," he said serenely. "It comes straight from an underground spring. It's very cold-quenches the thirst like nothing else." He saw her tongue working against the gag, and guessed that she was desperately thirsty.

"If I take this gag off, will you promise to be cooperative? I don't want to have to hurt you, but I will if I have to." Denise was disturbed to note his mouth twisting into a smile. She nodded her head slightly, and he put down the goblet.

One hand slid to the back of her neck, while the other stroked her cheek. "You are such a beauty. I can see why the King is so taken with you."

She averted her eyes, wishing that Porthos was at her side instead of this monster.

"Show me the respect of looking at me when I am talking to you!" he snapped.

She looked up immediately, trying not to cringe.

"You're a feisty, proud woman, aren't you?" he murmured. "I could see that the moment you began to fight me in your chamber." His fingers began to loosen the gag, intermittently stopping to massage the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck. "What would it be like to bed such a woman, I wonder?"

Despite her resolve to remain calm, Denise knew that her fear showed in her eyes. She was acquainted with more than one woman who had been subjected to violent assault, and just the sketchiest details of their trauma had given her nightmares for weeks. As the bonds loosened, she whispered, "I have—I have a daughter. Her name is Madeleine." She sought to distract him with talk of her child, desperately hoping to hit on some long-forgotten sense of mercy. "I am all she has left. My husband died several years ago."

"I see."

All she could see were the cold blue eyes peering down at her from the mask. The intensity of his gaze unnerved her, but she forced herself to continue to look at him, fearing that he would become agitated if she looked away again. He carefully pulled the cloth away from her mouth, closely observing her reaction.

She ran her tongue reflexively over her lips, but got no relief. The delicate membranes were cracked, and felt as parched as if she had been in the desert.

Keeping his eyes on hers, he dipped his finger into the goblet, lazily swirling it through the water.

"Open your mouth," he instructed her, still stirring the liquid.

Feeling as if she were an infant, she parted her lips slightly, trembling as his index finger left the goblet and slithered its way into her mouth.

"Suck."

Denise closed her eyes, tears stinging her eyes. But she was so incredibly thirsty that she obeyed, darting her tongue to his finger and then withdrawing immediately. The droplet of moisture that she obtained seemed to make her thirst even more acute. Her gaze wandered involuntarily back to his face.

"You want more, don't you?" His voice was soft, almost caressing, and it sent a chill down her spine.

"Please," she whispered, hating how vulnerable she sounded.

He repeated the same process several times, and she sucked his finger with an eagerness that gratified him immensely. When she saw the satisfied smile on his face, she nearly gagged, but managed to cover it with a cough, afraid to anger him.

"Thank you," she gasped.

He set the goblet down carefully, and leaned on the edge of the sarcophagus. "Now we need to have a little chat—about what I expect of you, and of what you can expect if decide not to obey my commands."

xxxx

Porthos could not ever remember being so enraged…not when he was a boy in the Court, and had suffered injustice in the streets on the daily basis…not during his initial days as a musketeer recruit, when some had mocked him for the color of his skin…not even in battle, when his enemies had spit on him.

_I have never met a woman like Denise….kind, loving, and patient—someone sees who only how similar our souls are, instead of focusing on how different our appearance is…and now I could lose her. Why didn't I insist on staying with her? What kind of a man leaves his fiancée alone and vulnerable? I don't deserve her if I can't even keep her safe in the one of the most secure places in the country!_

He had skirted the perimeter of the garden, but had uncovered no trace of her. As he headed towards the gate, he saw Aramis and Athos waiting for him.

"Nothing," he growled, not waiting for them to ask. "It's like she has vanished from the surface of the earth."

"Have you searched the palace in an organized fashion?" asked Athos.

"I don't have time for organization, Athos!" Porthos seized his friend's leather, twisting it around his hand as he came within inches of his face. "This is Denise, not some page hidin' in order to shirk his duty!"

"I am well aware of whom we are speaking," answered Athos coolly. "Charlotte has no idea that her cousin is missing, and I hope to find Denise before she ever finds out." Porthos stared at his friend for an instant, then released him, leashing his emotions with difficulty.

Treville and d'Artagnan joined them at that moment. The Captain's expression was grim. "D'Artagnan and I have scoured the kitchen, and no one has seen her. Porthos, I've taken the liberty of dividing up the available men into several search parties. The falconers have insisted on taking part."

"I'm grateful for their assistance," muttered the big man. "And thank you, Captain. I'm not exactly thinkin' clearly right now."

"I can imagine." Treville's gaze rested on Porthos. "We'll find her, Porthos. And whoever did this will be made to pay."

xxxxx

The King lounged in the comfortable chair in front of the fire, a goblet of wine held carelessly in his hand. "What about Charles? That's a manly, noble name."

Milady wrinkled her nose. "Didn't the last Charles die without a male heir? It could be bad luck."

Louis glanced over at the daybed, where his lover was gracefully reclining, a book in her hand. "You are so right, my sweet. Even though our son will never be King, one must be mindful of such things."

She stood up and put down her book. Circling over to the King's chair, she knelt in front of him, her green eyes earnest. "I know he will never rule France, but I would like nothing more than for our son to be his brother's most ardent supporter. The Dauphin will be wise, and well-loved by the people, just like his father."

His hand reached out to stroke her hair. "Why can Anne not see me as you do?" he murmured. "It is as if you see into my very soul."

"I see you for who you are, Sire—a good, generous, just monarch, who has set France on a path to glory. The thought of carrying your child—" her voice broke, a tear trailing down her cheek, "-it is an honor that I never could have dreamed of." She reached for his hand, and gave him her sweetest smile. "You have made me the happiest woman in the world." Kissing his ring, she glanced up at him shyly. In that instant, she recalled giving Athos the same look the day they first met.

_She had been walking through the fields near la Fère, and had seen him approaching from a distance. He was the heir to a wealthy noble family, and she had had her eye on him for some time, alert for an opportunity to insinuate herself into his life. The chance had finally come. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him glance her way once, then twice. As he neared, she pretended to stumble, falling to the ground._

_He was at her side in an instant. "Mademoiselle, are you hurt?" His rich, deep voice sent a thrill through her body. She waited a moment to look up at him, careful to appear grateful, yet timid—the same sort of look she was giving the King right now. Athos' deep blue eyes had searched her face for a moment, and then he had smiled-a warm, gentle smile that transformed his sober expression into that of a handsome, confident man. She had known at once that he was smitten, and the feeling of control had been intoxicating._

"You are a singular woman, Milady." Louis' voice brought her back to the present. "I believe that I have never met anyone quite like you."

"You are too lavish with your praise, Your Majesty."

"Nonsense! You brighten my day the second you walk into a room—unlike those Musketeers." He groaned, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "They plague me more and more every day. There are so few people I can really trust. Thank God I still have you—and the Comte de Rochefort." Sighing, he gazed into the fire. "At times, I even think the Queen is against me. She always takes the side of Captain Treville and his men! I can't for the life of me understand why she defends them so doggedly!"

Milady was silent for a moment, then spoke, choosing her words with care. "The Queen is a generous woman, Your Majesty. Perhaps she feels as if she owes them a debt. She has been saved from certain death by them more than once, has she not? I understand that the one called Aramis is thought of as her special protector."

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**How I love Milady-always ready to stir the pot! Thank your for continuing to read and review!**


	49. Chapter 49

_"Courage is the first of human qualities because it is the quality which guarantees the others."_

Aristotle

* * *

**CHAPTER XLIX**

"Special protector?" repeated the King slowly, his expression darkening. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing inappropriate, I'm sure," responded Milady, her green eyes resting on the monarch. "Captain Treville's men may be incompetent, but they are not foolish enough to dally with the Queen of France."

"Dally with the Queen!" Louis shouted, springing up at once. "You speak of treason, Milady! Any man who dares to the Queen will pay with his head!"

"Which is why I'm sure it is just idle gossip," she responded soothingly. "Please, Your Majesty, don't spend another moment thinking about it. You have many more pleasant subjects with which to occupy your attention. Do you think the weather is good enough to resume the falconry competition?"

The King peered out the window. "The sky is still grey, but the snow seems to have subsided. Perhaps by tomorrow." He turned back to the fire, and took his lover's hand, his eyes misting. "It's been so dreadfully dull here, Milady. You are the one thing that has kept me sane during this horrible sojourn to the country. And now, I shall always think of Fontainebleau as the place where you told me you were carrying our son."

"We will tell our son this story some day," whispered Milady. "And he will grow to manhood knowing that his father is the greatest man ever to rule France."

xxxx

When the search party was split up by Treville, Athos was less than overjoyed to find himself partnered with the Comte de Rochefort, who had materialized on the scene and declared his willingness to join the efforts.

"Out of all the people in this palace," muttered Athos to d'Artagnan, his breath misting in the chill winter air. "But it's for Denise, so I shall try to restrain myself from throttling him."

D'Artagnan gave a half-hearted attempt at a smile, then stared off at the horizon. "Athos—how was Charlotte when you left her?"

Athos' mouth curled up in a grin, his eyes warming. "She was…much improved."

His protégé looked at him, confused. "But when I left—"

Athos put an arm around his shoulders. "My friend, there is so much I need to teach you about how to please a woman. You-and Constance-will thank me later, trust me."

"If you're quite done with imparting your dubious wisdom to this young farmboy, can we please get on with the search?" Rochefort stood a few steps to the side, a sneer on his face.

"You'd best stay within the palace," Athos murmured to d'Artagnan, who was paired with Prince Radziwill. "I prefer to work with a snake in the open air." With that, he turned to his partner.

"I suggest we search the area around the carp pond," said Rochefort, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "No one has been out there yet."

Very well," Athos replied coolly. "After you, Comte."

xxxx

Porthos and Aramis had spent an hour searching the barns and mews, with no success. The big man was in a fury the likes of which Aramis had never seen, not even on the battlefield. When a door to a storage area jammed and would not open, Porthos merely ripped it off its hinges, and threw it on the floor.

The stable boys trembled, heartily wishing that the earth would swallow them up when the tall musketeer questioned them sternly, pressing them as to whether they had seen a woman with dark hair and grey eyes anytime in the past twelve hours. When he stormed out, they breathed a sigh of relief.

"NOTHING!" he roared, driving his fist into a loose board that protruded from the side of the barn. "God help me, Aramis, if somethin' happens to her..." His eyes filled with pain, and he shook his head.

The marksman put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "We will find her, Porthos! None of us will rest until we do."

"And when I get her back, I'm not wastin' any more time. I'm marryin' her, Aramis. She's..." he stopped for a moment, his voice becoming husky. "She's changed my life. I finally feel like...like I'm whole. Comin' to the garrison and becomin' a musketeer made me a man-gave me a purpose. And you and Athos have become the brothers I never had. But there's still a part of me that's the lonely urchin on the street who never knew his father...and lost his mother way too soon. And to think of havin' a home...and a wife waiting to kiss me when I walk in the door...and to love and be loved. It's just-" he shook his head again, and roughly wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

"Enough talk," he muttered. "Let's circle back to the palace and start in the servants' quarters. I doubt they've been searched yet."

xxx

The sky had turned a forbidding shade of grey, and the wind whipped through the trees, the bare branches swaying crazily in the air. Athos turned up the collar of his leather, pulling his scarf a little closer to his neck.

"The chill getting to you?" Rochefort's sardonic voice made Athos want to toss him into the frozen carp pond.

"I've seen worse than this-many times," replied Athos curtly. He started to walk, hoping his companion decide not to follow.

"Still, you must be eager to be back in your bed, with your beautiful wife to warm you. She's quite a prize, Athos. Where did you find her?"

"We met at the palace," Athos muttered, wishing the Comte would shut up.

Rochefort laughed, a smirk on his face. "Really? Well, although she is pretty, she's hardly of noble stock. Don't tell me she was one of prostitutes you musketeers undoubtedly employ to while away your duty hours."

Athos whirled around, his hand reaching for his sword. Just as he began to pull it out of the scabbard, a heavy weight hit the back of his head. He fell to the ground, senseless.

xxxx

When Athos regained consciousness, he was in utter darkness. He was lying on the floor, cold stone flush against his cheek. He had been stripped of his leather jacket, and his boots were gone.

His entire head throbbed, but the pain was especially intense on the left side. He vaguely remembered searching for Denise on the palace grounds, but could not recall what had happened afterwards. He tried to reach up and touch the area where it hurt the worst, but found that his hands were restrained. After a moment, he realized that his wrists were in shackles—as were his feet.

_Charlotte_. The image of her sweet face was burned into his brain. The meeting with d'Artagnan had traumatized her. At times, he found difficult to remember what life had been like before he had met her. However, the fact remained that just a few months ago, she had been a young woman living a quiet life with her apothecary father.

He was thankful he had been able to soothe her before he had been taken to this… place, wherever it was. Even when words failed him, as they often did, he had found that physical intimacy often smoothed the troubled waters of their relationship. Inevitably, when Charlotte lay in his arms afterwards, her warm body pressed against his, it was easier for him to bare his innermost thoughts to her.

_I swear I will come back to you…and our child._

The door scraped open. He blinked, expecting a harsh light to flood his eyes. However, the space outside his prison was shrouded in darkness as well. He could just make out the dim shape of a man, clothed in black, with a black hood over his head. He held a tray of food, and a nub of a candle burnt on it.

_Perhaps I will be treated humanely after all...they have brought me food and drink._

His hopes were dashed when the man sat casually on the floor about four feet away from Athos, well out of his reach. He picked up a carafe of wine, and slowly filled his goblet. The smell of the food on the tray was tantalizing. Athos detected notes of sage, thyme, and venison, and his mouth began to water.

_How long has it been since I ate a proper meal? _

His eyes focused on a large chunk of crusty bread, still steaming from the oven. His captor slowly buttered the bread, then took a bite, washing it down with a few sips of wine. He moved on to the bowl of stew, his cold blue eyes watching Athos the entire time. A few minutes later, he removed his hood. Athos felt a shock of recognition, but kept his face perfectly neutral. He spoke up first, hoping to set the tone for the interview.

"I see you have diversified your activities to include the assault and imprisonment of anyone who dares stand up to you."

Rochefort picked up his spoon and ate a few bites of stew, then took another long drink from his goblet. "This stew is amazing. Such a perfect blend of herbs, venison, and spices…and the wine only compliments the flavor."

"Spare me your review of the cook's efforts."

"You know, you could be enjoying some of this as well," commented Rochefort. "If you choose to be cooperative, that is."

The musketeer glared at him, and remained silent.

"Like that, is it?" The nobleman finished off the bowl, scraping it with his spoon. He looked up, his eyes resting on Athos'. "There is a crust of bread still left. And a bit of wine. All you have to do is listen to what I have to say."

"I'd sooner be dead," growled Athos.

Rochefort shook his head. "I might have believed that once, Athos. But not now. You have much to live for. Your lovely young wife is at the top of the list. I hear she is now carrying your child. After all those years, and all you gave up—your title, your place at court—and all you lost-your brother, the woman you condemned to death-you finally have a chance at happiness. I don't believe for a second that you are ready to throw that away."

He stood up, picking up the tray and heading for the door. As the spluttering candle moved further away, Athos sensed the curtain of darkness begin to descend upon the space once again.

"So, I advise you to consider more carefully what you have to lose if you choose to be uncooperative. It would be very easy for me to pluck your Charlotte from her room at Fontainebleau and bring her here to add some—spice, shall we say?—to your interrogation. So think over your options, musketeer. I'll be back at some point."

As he reached the door, Rochefort picked up a bit of bread from the tray and tossed it across the floor. "Here—a token of my esteem."

From out of nowhere, three rats dashed out into the open, viciously fighting for the morsel. It disappeared within seconds, and they slunk off into the darkness.

"You might want to be quicker next time." Rochefort snuffed out the candle and closed the door behind him, turning the key in the lock. As his steps receded into the distance, his laughter echoed against the stone walls.

* * *

**Rochefort and his brother seem to be running neck and neck for the title of most evil villain...and there may be some hurt coming Athos' way very soon-I hear you cheering, Helensg ;-)**

**If you have a moment, let me know what you thought. Your reviews are much appreciated!**


	50. Chapter 50

_"Our human compassion binds us the one to the other - not in pity or patronizingly, but as human beings who have learnt how to turn our common suffering into hope for the future."_

Nelson Mandela

* * *

**CHAPTER L**

As the sky began to darken, the search teams began to straggle in to report to Treville, who had set up a command post in the library. The Captain was deep in conversation with d'Artagnan and Prince Radziwill when he saw Rochefort saunter in. He kept his eye on the nobleman, who carelessly wandered around the room. He rifled through a few of the books, then picked up a carafe of wine and poured himself a goblet. He kept his distance from Treville even after the young musketeer and the falconer left.

Treville sat down at the desk and began to draft a rough sketch of the palace grounds, marking the areas that had been searched. _Damned if I am going to go to him. Let him come to me._

After a few minutes of being ignored, the Comte finally approached the desk. "Aren't you at all curious to know if I gleaned any information from my search?"

The Captain gave him a cool look. "I would rather wait for Athos. Where is he?"

"I have no idea. He wandered off while we were in the garden." Rochefort took several gulps of wine, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Perhaps he became bored, and headed back to bed with his wife. He does seem to have less interest in his duties nowadays, doesn't he?"

Treville stood up, his eyes narrowing. "I have no problem with Athos and his performance. I do, however, have a problem with you."

"I understand, Captain." Rochefort gave him a condescending smile. "It can be difficult to see your own men shown up by someone outside the regiment—someone who has the King's favor at this very moment. A pity that you don't."

He placed his goblet on the desk, then looked up to see Treville's eyes fixed on his.

"Don't underestimate me, Comte. The King's fancy waxes and wanes with the phases of the moon. Before you know it, you may be cooling your heels in the Chatelet."

Rochefort smirked. "Keep telling yourself that, Captain. After all, you need something to sustain the illusion that you are still in charge."

xxxx

Charlotte awoke with a start, her husband's name on her lips. Her breathing was fast and uneven, and her body was bathed in a cold sweat.

_The dream had been so real. Athos had been standing in the middle of a clearing, deep in the forest. The open area was ringed by torches, and he was shackled to a tree. His handsome face was battered and bruised, and one eye was swollen shut. _

_He was surrounded by a group of men dressed in black, with black hoods covering their heads. A tall man stepped forward, and struck him across the face. His head lolled to the side, his body hanging slack against the chains._

_She glanced around her, desperate to signal Porthos and Aramis, who had come with her in search of Athos. However, they had disappeared, swallowed up by the dense thicket of trees. Suddenly, the men began to chant in Latin, their voices echoing against the boulder that stood at the head of the clearing. The leader raised his arm, and a torch was brought to him. As he bent to the base of the tree, a primal, blood curdling scream went up from the men. Athos' head snapped up, his eyes widening in horror as the flames begun to lick around his body…._

Her eyes went to the chair next to the bed, only to see it standing empty. A tree branch slapped against the window, and she looked up. The wind was whistling past the eaves, and the sky was nearly dark.

_How long have I been asleep?_

She glanced at the bedside table, her eyes searching for a scrap of paper. Even if his duties did not allow a personal visit, her husband customarily scrawled a quick note upon returning from a mission to let her know he had returned safely—or at least sent word via a servant.

Something was very wrong.

A light tap came at the door. It swung open, and she sighed in relief, her face brightening. "Athos, thank God! I was so worried—"

It was then that Annette appeared. Charlotte felt a lump form in her throat, and she fought to keep her composure.

"I'm sorry. It's just me. May I come in?"

Charlotte pulled herself up in bed, and nodded, giving the other woman what she hoped was a convincing smile. "Of course."

She had consciously avoided spending much time in Annette's company during their time at Fontainebleau, telling herself that it was easier on both of them that way. However, deep in her heart, she knew that the reasoning behind her decision was much more complicated than that.

Annette was beautiful in an ethereal sort of way. She was fine-boned and slender, and even the smallest movement of her body was graceful and flowing. Although most people found her contrasting eye colors unsettling, in Charlotte's mind, it only added to the woman's exotic look. In addition, Annette was obviously a warm, loving mother, and Andrés openly adored her.

The night Athos had first told her the story of his long-lost love, Charlotte had found herself lying awake in the small hours of the night. She had turned on her side, watching her husband sleep. He had looked relaxed and peaceful, perhaps because he had finally disclosed the last hidden details of his past to her hours before.

_But how do I know that his past ends there? How can Athos look at his first love—and Catalina, who is such a lively, sweet little girl-and not wish things had turned out differently?_

Annette's voice brought her out of her thoughts. "I hope I'm not disturbing you. I just wanted to stop by to wish you a speedy recovery. How are you feeling?"

"A bit better today. I managed to get a bit of rest." Her fingers strayed to her neck, sliding the la Fère ring along the thin chain. "Have you by chance seen Athos?"

"Not this afternoon, but the men are returning from the search. I'm sure he'll be along shortly."

"The search?" A hint of anxiety stole into Charlotte's voice. "What's happened? Is someone missing?"

"You don't know?" Annette shifted in her chair, and looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Know what? Annette, please—tell me!"

Her visitor stood up, then sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. She made a movement as if to reach for Charlotte's hand, then stopped, her eyes uncertain. "I shouldn't have said anything. I honestly had no idea you didn't know."

Charlotte suddenly recalled Aramis' offhanded explanation of Denise's absence earlier, and the color drained out of her face in an instant. "It's Denise, isn't it?" she whispered. "Dear Lord, please…"

"They will find her. God will not allow harm to come to such a sweet soul." Annette spoke with certainty. Her faith was infectious, and Charlotte felt a small ray of hope. In that instant, she was overwhelmed with shame. Her insecurity had led her to distance herself from this gracious woman—a woman who had loved and lost the very man that Charlotte cherished with all her heart. It could not have been easy for Annette to come to seek her out, let alone console her—yet she had done so, setting aside her own feelings.

Charlotte swallowed, fighting the urge to yield to the emotions that were flooding into her heart. "I can see why Athos fell in love with you," she whispered. "That is just what I needed to hear. Thank you."

Tears began to stream down Annette's cheeks, and she reached for Charlotte's hand. "Charlotte, there is something I have been wanting to say to you, and I haven't quite had the courage. I can only imagine what a nightmare this whole time here at Fontainebleau has been for you. You have your husband's former wife flaunting her relationship with the King at every turn—and then I show up, with Catalina in tow. It had to have been a shock. Despite this, you have never said an unkind word to me. In fact, you were instrumental in saving my husband's life when he was injured. But there is still this undercurrent of tension every time we are in a room together."

"Annette, I—"

"Please—let me finish." Her hand gripped Charlotte's a bit tighter. "Athos and I were very young when fate drew us together. He was the first person outside my family who had ever looked past my eyes—the first person who took the time to see me for who I was." Her voice wavered for an instant. "And he is Athos—kind, honourable, intelligent—with that dry sense of humor. How could I not have fallen in love with him?"

Annette was silent for a moment, then smiled through her tears. "Charlotte, I do not regret for an instant the months we had together, and I will always cherish the bond we share in our daughter. When Athos' father, the old Comte, threatened to kill my father unless I married Andrés and left the estate immediately, I thought my life was over. The wedding was performed within hours, and I was spirited away from la Fère before Athos ever knew what was happening."

"I cannot conceive of such a thing." Charlotte whispered. "You were so young-torn away from everyone you loved, to live with a stranger."

"Thankfully, my father knew Andrés was a good man, and had had him in mind for some time as a match for me. In fact, I was luckier than most women who have arranged marriages. The only problem was that I was in love with another man, and pregnant with his child."

"And Andrés—" Charlotte hesitated.

"Accepted it?" Annette's face crumpled. "Yes—because I let him think Catalina was his." She began to sob in earnest. "It was so wrong. I built my whole marriage on a lie."

Charlotte sat up, and put her arms around the woman who days before had seemed a threat to her happiness. "You did what you had to for the sake of your child," she murmured. "No one can fault you for that."

"I should have told him years ago." Annette choked. "But I was too much of a coward. So he had to hear it from Milady de Winter." She took in a breath, and clung to Charlotte, whispering, "I don't even know why I'm telling you this. I shouldn't have said anything."

"Perhaps you just needed a sympathetic ear," Charlotte said softly. "I'm so sorry you had to live through all that pain. But surely Andrés will forgive you, once he has had time to reflect."

"How could he?"

Charlotte drew back, and gently touched her cheek. "Because he loves you—with what to my eye is a pure, selfless love. One error in judgement cannot not destroy that."

"I hope so—because I do love him, with all my heart. And that is what I have wanted to tell you, Charlotte. Please know that I pose no threat to your marriage. Since the day Athos and I were parted, I have prayed every night that he would find happiness. When I see you two together, I can tell that he is at peace—and that knowledge allows me to finally close the door to my past, and look forward to the future. And I hope someday to watch our children playing together—especially the little ones that we are carrying inside of us at this very moment."

"I very much like the idea of that," whispered Charlotte. "But I will not rest easy until I see Denise and Athos walk through that door, safe and sound."

xxxx

Athos had no idea how many hours had passed. He had dozed off, sitting upright against the wall. Suddenly, the door flew upon, and four men rushed into the room without warning, hauling him to his feet. His shirt was cut off, and a hood was passed over his head. A moment later, his shackles were removed. He was shoved against the wall, the slimy, cold stone flat against his belly.

Within seconds, the musketeer was put into rusted metal cuffs that were affixed to the stone wall, and forced into a spread-eagled position. He felt lightheaded from lack of food and drink, and struggled to stay upright. Silence fell upon the room, and he strained his ears to try to pick up any signs of human movement.

A whip suddenly cracked against the stone next to his right hand. Startled by the sound, he jumped. The men exploded in laughter, then fell silent as the door opened once again.

Athos heard footsteps approaching, and braced himself for the sting of the whip. A hand grasped his hood, wrenching his neck back.

"So, are you ready to cooperate?" Rochefort was inches from his ear, his hot breath penetrating the sack over Athos' head. The musketeer remained silent. Rochefort nodded at one of the men, who cracked his knuckles, then stepped forward and delivered a crushing blow to Athos' ribcage.

Athos felt pain explode through his body, and he felt as if his chest had been crushed. He tried to take in a deep breath, but only succeeded in sucking the fabric of the hood against his mouth. Panic began to flood through his body, and he tried to twist out of Rochefort's grasp. The nobleman's eyes met those of his henchman again, and another savage punch was delivered.

"I looked in on your sweet Charlotte a little while ago. Such a devoted wife. It was really quite a touching scene. When I told her I'd found you, but that you were injured, she struggled out of bed, insisting on coming with me. In fact, she is just outside. Shall I bring her in?"

* * *

**I'm back! I've gotten through episode 7 of season 3, and felt the need to return to writing. Thank you for continuing to read!**


	51. Chapter 51

_"To be sensual, I think, is to respect and rejoice in the force of life, of life itself, and to be present in all that one does, from the effort of loving to the making of bread."_

James A. Baldwin

* * *

**CHAPTER LI**

"You're lying," Athos said hoarsely. "She would never go anywhere with you."

Rochefort laughed—a deep, malevolent laugh that made Athos nearly lose his composure.

"You are so naïve, Athos…just like your trusting little Charlotte. How I am going to enjoy taking her…and I will be sure to give you all the details later. Sweet dreams, my friend." An instant later, Athos felt a crushing blow strike the side of his head, and knew no more.

xxxx

The weather was warm and dry—perfect for a journey into the forest. Athos had dreamed of taking Charlotte to his family's hunting lodge since the day they had married. She was in the middle months of her pregnancy now, finally free from the nausea she had experienced early on.

They were on his horse, making their way across a broad meadow filled with narcissi. Charlotte carried a loose bouquet of the delicate white flowers. Athos had stopped to pick them for her, gallantly presenting them on bended knee.

"I can't believe we will finally have time to ourselves," she murmured, leaning back to kiss him. "No garrison. No missions. No Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan—much as I love them," she added hastily.

"It's heaven on earth, is it not?" The teasing tone of his voice made her smile.

"Perhaps." She slanted her eyes up at him. "I reserve judgement until I see exactly what you have in store for me."

"You doubt my ability to please you?" He tilted his head, giving her the look that always made her weak in the knees. "Really?"

"I _did not_-" She began to laugh, but he covered her mouth with his, silencing her in an instant. When he finally drew away, Charlotte stared at him, her eyes filled with desire. "Show me."

"With pleasure," he murmured, spurring the horse into a canter.

A few minutes later, they arrived at the edge of a forest. Athos tugged on the reins, slowing his mount to a walk.

The tall pines soon surrounded them. After the heat of the open meadow, the cool breeze was welcome. Charlotte felt a trickle of sweat trail down the small of her back, and she shifted slightly in the saddle.

"Getting a bit warm?" Athos nuzzled her neck, then looked down at her. His cool, magnetic voice seemed to penetrate into the very core of her body.

"Perhaps. But you are doing nothing to help the situation," she retorted.

"I wouldn't be so hasty to judge." He reined in the horse, then swung down, extending his hand to her.

She locked eyes with him, and felt a familiar tingle of anticipation begin to penetrate into her belly. "Surely you-"

"Trust me."

He swept her into his arms, then set her lightly on the ground.

"Always," she whispered.

They walked along a narrow path, their steps cushioned by the pine needles that lay underfoot. He felt light and carefree for the first time in months, and his spirits lifted further when he saw Charlotte relaxed and happy. After five minutes or so, the sound of rushing water came to their ears.

She glanced up at him, her eyes questioning.

"Come." He took her hand, and led her into a small glen. A circle of stately aspen trees surrounded them, their leaves rustling in the breeze. The soft, lush grass was dotted with small purple wildflowers.

"It's lovely," Charlotte murmured.

"Ah, but there's more." Athos guided her to a long, flat rock at the far end of the clearing. "Look."

The view took Charlotte's breath away. Directly in front of her, a small waterfall cascaded into a pool of crystal-clear, azure water. "It looks so inviting," she said wistfully. "If only…"

She heard a movement behind her, and turned to see that Athos had removed his boots. An instant later, he had stripped off his shirt.

Pushing her damp hair off the back of her neck, she gave him a reproachful look. "That's not exactly fair."

"Why not?" He slid behind her, and began to undo the elaborate lacing on the back of her dress. "Once we get this heavy material off, you'll instantly feel better."

Charlotte's eyes darted around the clearing. "Athos, do you really think…"

"We have absolute privacy," he said, his voice soothing. "These are my lands, after all. I left strict instructions for us to be left undisturbed for the afternoon. Your only task is to allow me to care for you."

The moment her dress slid to the ground, she relaxed, and leaned back against him. As she closed her eyes, the wind stirred the soft folds of her chemise. Her hands went to her softly rounded belly.

"You've pleased the little one," she murmured. "He-or she-seems to be settling down."

Athos laced his fingers through hers, and chuckled as he felt a little flutter beneath the pad of his thumb. "Perfect timing." He kissed the side of her neck. "Here, why don't you sit here on the edge of the rock? I'm going to test the water."

He peeled off his breeches, and waded into the water, clad only in his braies. Taking in a deep breath, he submerged for an instant, then surfaced. The water sluiced down the hard muscles of his chest as he stood up, pushing his hair off his face.

"I'm enjoying the view!" called out Charlotte sweetly. "The extra training you've been giving d'Artagnan has definitely paid off in terms of your physique. In fact-" she stopped for a moment, her eyes sparkling with mischief, "-if you keep it up, you may actually give Aramis some competition."

Athos sliced through the water with a few swift strokes, then hauled himself onto the rock. Charlotte squealed as he stood over her, the cold water dripping on to her chemise.

"You're going to give me hypothermia!"

"And you, my sweet wife, will pay a forfeit for your injudicious comment."

"I was just teasing!" she protested, scooting away from him.

"Nevertheless, you must be taught a lesson," he murmured. In one swift movement, he bent over and scooped her into his arms.

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Wouldn't I?" he responded, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a smirk as he waded into the water with her. "After all, I've seen far too little of your exquisite body these past few weeks. Treville has kept me so busy that time for lovemaking has been scarce."

She squirmed in his arms, making a futile attempt at escape. "If your idea of getting me in the mood is carrying me into a glacial body of water and making me beg for mercy-"

"There will be no mercy for you today, my sweet. Besides, you'll thank me later." With that, he tossed her into the water.

She pierced the surface with a shriek. "You will pay for this, Comte or no Comte!" She circled around to his back, and looped her arms around his neck.

"And just how do you propose to do that?" he inquired calmly, pulling her under the water with him one more time.

"Let me go!" she spluttered as they resurfaced.

"You were the one who grabbed me!" He was laughing now, entertained by the piqued look on her face. All of a sudden, he eyes swept over her, and his expression changed. "I must say that I have been amply rewarded for my knavery. Your wet chemise leaves little to the imagination."

"Then you shall have an afternoon of unbridled visual enjoyment ahead of you, for I am unlikely to dry off before dinner!"

He shook his head reprovingly. "Now, that is just not true. Once we lay it out in the sun, it'll be dry in no time."

"You're not suggesting..." Charlotte broke off, staring at him in disbelief.

"My love, once the baby comes, it will not be so easy for us to slip off like this."

"You are telling me that you-a seasoned musketeer-will not be able to engineer a romantic interlude with your wife while someone watches the baby? I wasn't born yesterday, Athos. You just want to get my chemise off, right here, right now."

He grinned, then shrugged. "Okay, so you've found me out. Will you do the honors, or shall I?"

"At least allow me the dignity of undressing myself," she said, giving him a dark look. Keeping her eyes on his, she reached down, then lunged for him. Before he knew what had happened, his braies had slipped down to his knees.

Charlotte dissolved in a peal of laughter as Athos decorously stepped out of his undergarment. "Two can play at that, my lady." She began to scull backwards, still giggling, but he was on her in an instant. The filmy material of her chemise was around her ankles seconds later.

"When did your breasts get so big?" he asked hoarsely, unable to take his eyes off her body.

She began to laugh once again. "I think you have asked me that at least once a week for the past few months. Am I getting to be too much for you to handle?"

"Oh, I think I have the situation under control," he murmured. As he lowered his mouth for a kiss, his hands began to roam over her body. After eight months of marriage, he knew exactly how to stoke her desire for him.

Charlottes breathing quickened. "I don't feel so cold anymore."

"Good." He lifted her off her feet, prompting her to wrap her legs around his waist. Striding through the clear water, he carried her to a small ledge just behind the cascading waterfall.

A curtain of mist floated around them, curling tiny wisps of hair around Charlotte's temples. As he settled her on the smooth rock, his voice became husky. "How I love those sweet little curls."

"You look quite handsome yourself." Her brown eyes warmed as her fingers glided over the bristle of his beard. "Have I ever mentioned how much I love your beard? Promise me you'll never grow a goatee."

"Done," he muttered. "But enough talk. I demand satisfaction for your behavior earlier."

"And is this satisfaction to be mutual?" she inquired.

"Give me a few minutes, and I think the answer to that question will be apparent."

An hour later, they lay wrapped in a blanket on the soft grass. Charlotte had fallen asleep nestled against his chest, and Athos had tucked a narcissus behind her ear. As he looked down at his wife, he could not help but think that he had never seen her look more beautiful.

The sun shone down through the trees, and its sweet warmth soon lulled Athos to sleep. Sometime later, he awoke, and became conscious of an unpleasant heat on his back.

He went to roll on to his side, sure that he had sustained a sunburn. However, he found that he was pinned down, and unable to move. The heat moved from his right to left shoulder blade, crescendoing into a terrible, piercing pain. He gritted his teeth, refusing to allow whatever-or whomever—was behind this to see his torment.

"Think you're tough, eh?" The deep voice was laced with venom. "You ain't seen nothin' yet, musketeer." With that, a rod was pressed against Athos' spine, and the nauseating smell of burnt flesh filled the room.

Despite his determination to remain stoic, a cry escaped Athos' lips. The sound was wild and awful, even to his own ears. After what seemed like an eternity, the rod was lifted from his skin. Athos felt as if crushed glass had infiltrated into his spine, with even the most minute movement causing excruciating pain.

The rod clanged to the ground behind him, and his captor's voice became more feral. "Now it's my turn with your pretty little wife. The boss said she put up quite a fight initially, but she's more—placid now, shall we say?"

As he opened the door, a woman's scream was heard to reverberate down the dark hallway. "ATHOS!"

He stiffened, but by the time he called out, the door had slammed shut, and all was silent.

_I am doomed_, he thought, sagging against the chains. _And so is the love of my life._

* * *

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	52. Chapter 52

_"Now I believe I can hear the philosophers protesting that it can only be misery to live in folly, illusion, deception and ignorance, but it isn't -it's human."_

Desiderius Erasmus

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**CHAPTER LII**

Treville's blood boiled as he recalled the smug expression on Rochefort's face._ I don't doubt that Athos took the first opportunity he had to slip away from that little bastard. _He knew Athos well enough to be certain that his lieutenant would report to him immediately upon his return. In the meantime, he and d'Artagnan went over the map of Fontainebleau, marking the few areas they had yet to search.

They were so engrossed in their work that Treville failed to realize how much time had passed. When Aramis and Porthos strode into the room, he frowned. "Athos isn't with you?"

"No. We haven't seen him since we split up this morning," responded Aramis, blowing on his hands to warm them.

"Something is wrong." D'Artagnan's dark eyes were troubled.

Porthos swore under his breath. "Captain, there's no trace of Denise anywhere. It's like she's vanished off the face of the earth. But someone's got her…and now maybe they've got Athos too."

"Or their disappearances could be unrelated." Treville threw down his pen. "The Comte de Rochefort was quite smug when he reported in earlier. He claimed that he had no idea where Athos had gone—said he'd wandered off in the gardens."

"Yeah, and I'm a fairy princess." Porthos' hands flexed at his sides. "Captain, I suggest we use the evenin' to scour the palace once again. There's gotta be little nooks and crannies we missed the first time."

Treville sighed, and scrubbed his face with his hands. "I see no other alternative. We cannot afford to rest. There is too much at stake."

xxxx

Denise strained to hear the voice of her captor. He seemed to be very far away at the moment. Her hands were tingling, and her head felt lighter than air.

"You gave me something. In the water." Her tongue felt thick, and she was having trouble forming her words. She shook her head, trying to clear it.

"Such a suspicious mind." His tone was mocking. "But yes, I did. It was an elixir that will help you relax. How do you feel?"

"I feel-not normal. Like my whole body is light, and nothing hurts anymore."

"Good." His voice was soothing now. "I'm going to give you a few more minutes to rest, and then we're going to play a little game. Nothing too taxing. Just close your eyes for a few moments."

Denise felt her eyelids closing of their own accord. _I feel so relaxed. Maybe he isn't as cruel as I thought. Maybe he is planning to let me go._

After some time had passed, she heard him speak.

"Now I want you to prepare to open your eyes. When you do so, you will feel fully rested, and ready to take on whatever task I give you. You will know in your heart that I only want the best for you, and the best for France. So when I ask you to go to the King's chambers, you will know that you are on the most important errand of your life. Everything else you will have experienced in life will have been for the express purpose of preparing you for this moment in time. Do you understand?"

"I do." Her voice was strong and confident.

"And do you trust me?"

"Implicitly."

"Good. Now open your eyes." Her grey eyes slowly opened, and she smiled up at him.

Giles felt his heart begin to pound in excitement. This time he'd gotten it right. He hadn't been careful enough with d'Artagnan—hadn't considered the dose he had given to the young man, or the condition that he had been in. Of course, at that time, he'd been acting as his brother's minion. This time, he was much more personally invested in the outcome.

xxxx

Rochefort paced outside the door that led to the cell where Athos was being held. A single torch flickered in the darkness of the hallway as he impatiently waited for his right-hand man to appear. When the metal door scraped open, all was silent. His lieutenant, a burly man named Auguste, stepped into the corridor, a buxom kitchen maid on his arm. He pinched her bottom, then handed her a silver coin. She squealed, then whispered in his ear, and disappeared up the crumbling stone staircase.

Rochefort raised an eyebrow. "I gather he believed her blood-curling scream was that of his beloved Charlotte?"

The man grinned. "I expect so. After all, one screamin' wench sounds the same as the next, eh? Just before I opened the door, I heard 'im call out for 'er, and 'e sounded pretty damn desperate."

"Good." The comte's blue eyes hardened. "And how did he respond to the iron?"

" 'E was a bit hardier than the usual, but before I was done, I got a response from 'im all right. And when I told 'im we had 'is wife….well, 'e just went all stiff..like 'e was in shock."

"Even better. We'll let him spend the night turning that thought over in his mind, then go back for another session in the morning. Well done, Auguste. As a reward, I'll let you have the evening at liberty to spend as you choose."

The man's eyes slid to the staircase, and Rochefort guessed the path of his thoughts. "Just make sure she doesn't tire you out too much. I don't want you unfit for duty in the morning."

"Oh, I'll be ready, milord. The next part is the part I enjoy the most."

xxxx

The King sat in front of the fire in his bedchamber, staring at the flames. He drained the last of his wine, then slammed the gem-encrusted cup onto the small table next to him. He was in a foul temper, bored and thoroughly out of sorts. He had expected Milady de Winter to entertain him that evening, but she had retired to her own chamber for the night, begging off due to a headache.

He closed his eyes, rubbing his temples in order to soothe away the dull ache that had started there. He had considered summoning Anne, but wasn't in the mood to listen to her prattle on and on about the Dauphin. The boy had been a salvation for the kingdom, but he expected his queen to focus her attention on him when he deigned to call her to his bed.

_Why did Treville insist upon bringing me here to Fontainebleau? I haven't had a decent meal since I've been here. Milady is pregnant, and is already become tiresome. I'm miles away from any entertainment, and shall likely die of boredom before I get back to Paris._

At that moment, he heard a panel on the far wall slid open, and sighed in annoyance.

"I have no need of your company tonight, Anne. You are free to return to your own chamber." His voice was sharp, leaving no room for doubt as what his wishes were.

"Your Majesty?" Sweet and clear, the speaker's words floated across the room to him. "I humbly request a word with you. I am afraid I have done you an injustice by withholding something from you that was rightfully yours, and I must beg your forgiveness."

He recognized the voice immediately, and his interest was piqued. However, he put on an expression of displeasure, and turned to the carafe of wine, pouring himself another goblet. "Ah, the Black Widow of Moret-sur-Loing makes a reappearance. You are bold to request an audience with me after disappointing me so grievously at our last meeting."

The rustle of silk was heard from behind him, and Denise circled in front of him to kneel at his feet. Her shining black hair was unbound, and flowed over her shoulders. She wore a low cut white gown, drawing attention to her full, high breasts. Her grey eyes lifted to his, and her voice trembled. "You must understand, Your Majesty…I am just a simple seamstress from a little village in the countryside. I was overwhelmed by your invitation to dine, and did not feel myself worthy of your attention. I spun you a tale that night."

"Spun me a tale?" he repeated, his tone hardening. "You lied to me?"

"There is no Black Widow," she whispered, looking down at the floor as tears filled her eyes. "I made up that story on the spur of the moment, because I was afraid—afraid that if you took me to your bed, that I would fall in love with you. And I could not bear to have my heart broken….for I could never hope to be made one of your mistresses. I am not worthy of such an honor. But I should never have denied you my body."

"Denise, look at me." He put took her chin in his hand, and tilted her head up to meet his gaze. His brown eyes were full of sympathy. "I understand your fears, and I hold no ill will towards you. Perhaps it was imprudent of me to have not signaled my interest first in a more—subtle way. But you are wrong to think that you do are not the sort of woman that I would consider forming a permanent liaison with." He trailed his fingers along her cheek, and she sought the warmth of his touch, giving a little sigh of pleasure.

"I know I have nothing much to offer you, Your Majesty. I am not skilled in the art of seducing a man. In fact, I have known only one man—my late husband. I fear I cannot offer much in the way of novelty, and could possibly prove to be a disappointment."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" he murmured, sliding her chemise off of her left shoulder.

She blushed, and the pink flush in her cheeks served only to enhance the expanse of white, creamy breast that lay invitingly in front of him.

"Undress for me," he muttered, his voice growing hoarse. "But slowly…. only a few inches at a time. I want to savor every moment."

* * *

**I am afraid things are not looking any better for poor Denise...or for Athos. **


End file.
